


The Life and Times of Mag the Cook

by just_ann_now



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Birth Control, Boromir Lives, Character Death, Character Study, Comfort Food, Cooking, Drabble Sequence, F/F, Femslash, Ficlet Collection, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Growing Up, Heroism, Loss of Virginity, M/M, POV First Person, POV Original Character, Slice of Life, War of the Ring, mettare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 51
Words: 25,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_ann_now/pseuds/just_ann_now
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mag was born on a small farm in Lebennin in TA 2950. At the age of thirteen, she and her best friend Niallis took up apprenticeships in the White City. Mag was employed in the Steward’s House in a variety of career-enhancing positions, from scullery-maid to Assistant Cook, until until TA 2990, when she became Head Cook of the Citadel, a position she held for over 30 years, spoiling generations of Citadel guards and trainees with her excellent food and exuberant affection.</p><p>In FA 3 Mag “retired” to Emyn Arnen, at the Prince of Ithilien’s invitation, to join his household there. However, Mag did not find country life to her liking and soon returned to Minas Tirith, where she found continued employment doing what she loved to do best, cooking and spoiling people. Her last employers were Captain Iorlas of the Citadel Guard and his wife Ana. </p><p>In FA 24, Mag passed away in her sleep under the apricot tree in Ana and Iorlas’s garden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mag the Cook Remembers Boromir

The drabble that started it all. 

**Mag the Cook Remembers Boromir**

Oh, he had a sweet tooth, our young lord Boromir! Whenever he returned home to us, safe and whole, I’d fix his favorites: breakfast cakes drizzled with ginger glaze; milky tea sweetened with honey and cinnamon; crisp duckling roasted with oranges and dates. He’d laugh, and kiss me, and call me his darling Mag. I’d shoo him away, but not before he’d grab a handful of sugared almonds, for later.

Now, every year on his birthday, my lord Faramir bakes ginger cakes, with his own hands, in memory. Not as good as mine, but Faramir tries his best, bless him. 

_ Originally posted October, 2004, as a birthday drabble for faramir_boromir _


	2. Snakes

_How did you first come to the City, Mag, all the way from Lebennin? they ask, and I tell them:_

"It is all because of snakes, and my horrible, wicked sister."

Yes, wicked, and jealous of me! She always was, for I was our Gran’s darling, not her. She knew I was afraid, even from the time I was a tiny thing, and so once when I was four she put a snake in my cot as I lay napping. When I awoke, there was the foul beast lying on my chest, staring at me, with those great flat eyes, full of evil. I screamed, such as scream as had never been heard before or since, but my Gran came and comforted me in my terror; holding me and rocking me for comfort. “I hate snakes, hate them, hate them,” I sobbed. “I want to live in a land without snakes.” So my Gran told me of the White City, where she had lived for a time as a girl, a city of cold stone without trees, or grass, or flowers, or snakes; certainly without snakes; and I said that I would go live there as soon as I could.

They laughed at me; but when I was ten, I began to ask about ‘prenticeships in the White City; and did again all the time I was eleven; and when I was twelve they were all so tired of my pestering that it was decided that I and my dearest friend Niallis would go to the White City, She was to be apprenticed to the Healers, for her family grew herbs for healing and cooking, and I to be a scullery maid; hopefully as time passed on I would grow enough wits to be promoted at least to kitchen maid. So we were placed under the protection of a merchant’s wife, and headed with her party of tradesmen off to the White City.

Many, many years we lived there, as I progressed from scullery maid to cook’s helper and on up, eventually, to Cook of the Citadel; and my dear Niallis worked her way from drab to laundry assistant. They had lied to us a little; for there were a few small trees, and courtyards and gardens with grass and flowers; but if there were snakes in the White City, I never saw any, and so I was happy.


	3. Pennyroyal

She was apprenticed to the healers, so she should have known the signs – I knew them, after all, but I had an older sister and a horde of nieces and nephews while I was growing up. I saw the rosy glow of her skin and the way the fabric of her bodice had begun to strain. When she came to me the fourth morning, complaining of queasiness, I knew the time had come to speak, for what were friends for, if not for honesty? I was glad to have tucked the little bag of herbs into my pocket. I had known this day would come.

“Let me fix you some toast, Nall, and tea.” She nibbled delicately at the bread, took a sip of tea and spit it out again in shock.”

“What -- ? Mag, that tea is awful! What’s wrong with it?”

“ ’Tis pennyroyal tea.” I took a deep breath. “And you should drink it three times a day, for the next month, I would think.”

She stared at me, aghast. She was my friend, had been since we were both five years old, and I love her dearly, but she had no mind for details, which is why she’d never be a healer. Too many herbs, too many similar names and leaves and scents, but here in the white city, pennyroyal is used for only one thing. She knew that as well as I. “No, Mag, no…”

“Is he of a mind to marry you, then? Has he spoken of it? Or has he already headed back to his wife and family in Dol Amroth?” I was angry now, and all my anger and bitterness and jealousy, yes, poured forth in a rush. “Or do you not know for sure which one it was? Is there one you can gull into wedding you, and hope the babe will not be born straw-headed, or dark skinned? You work with the healers, did they not ever give you any advice at all? _How could you be so stupid?”_

She stood, pushing her hands against the table, but her face was white as the linens she would spend her life scrubbing and mending. I caught her as she crumpled. “Nall, please, I’m so sorry, Nall….”

~*~

I sent word to the healer’s house that she was ill, and would be resting here for the day. Some friends dropped by; they peeked at her as she slept, and then left, stopping for a taste of new bread and honey butter on the way. One lingered, giving me a sharp, insightful look.

“She’ll need some clouts; thick ones, to wear all the time. And you’ll want to put a straw pad under her when she sleeps, else she’ll ruin your mattress.” I nodded. “If nothing happens within the month, it’s gone too late, and she’d best be looking for a husband. You can ask around, quietly. There are always some willing to raise another man’s child, in exchange for someone to keep their house and warm their bed. They’re not all bad; just quiet, sometimes, or hurt inside, or just not sure how to go about finding a wife. It wouldn’t be a bad life for them, maybe.” 

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

I got the clouts, and the straw pad. Three times a day, Nall drank the tea, four times if you count the cup she vomited up again every morning. She stayed each night with me, for comfort; and on the twelfth day, she awoke all bloody. We both wept with relief.

~*~

She never did go back to sleeping in the big chamber with the other apprentices; preferring my snug little nook back behind the kitchen. After a while, it was quietly suggested that she might be happier working under the housekeeper, rather than the healers; and so she was. We celebrated this career progression with brandy, curled together in bed, chatting as we had since we were five. Brandy brings out the truth, I’ve heard said, and that night I discovered the rightness of that old adage.

“To be honest, Mag, I don’t think I like it all that much. You’re right, you know. That thing does look funny, no matter how proud they are of it; and with all the pounding and the grunting, it hurts. I like the kissing, and I like it when they suck my bibbies, and when they touch me down there. I like that the best, I think.”

I held my breath for just one heartbeat, then whispered into the dark, “I could do all that for you, Nall.”

She snuggled closer to me, sleepily, and I almost could hear her smile. “You surely could, my Mag. You could.”


	4. Promotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, "Mag cooks an unfamiliar recipe."

Promotion

“You, new girl! You can start by whipping the cream. Whip it for a bit, then we’ll add the honey and lemon and wine.”

“How will I know, mam? When to add it?"

“I’ll come by and check, not to worry.” Second Cook was friendly and good natured; Mag relaxed just a bit. “It takes a lot of whipping, but Lord Ecthelion does love his syllabub, and we cook what we’re told. ‘Tis why we were placed on this earth, to cater to the wishes of our betters. You just keep on whipping, girl, and I’ll tell you when to add the rest.”

It was Mag’s first day as a kitchen-maid, promoted just yesterday from the scullery, and she didn’t want to make any mistakes that would send her back there. So she whipped, gazing curiously around the immense kitchen with its mysterious implements, pots and pans and huge ovens. She whipped until her arm ached; changed arms and whipped some more; rolled her shoulders, still whipping; changed arms back, and kept whipping, as the cream became thicker and thicker and less easily whipped.

“Mam? Excuse me, mam?” Mag called hesitantly. 

Second Cook was leaning against the kitchen doorway, talking to the stable master. She must have gotten quite warm in the course of fixing breakfast, for her pretty face was flushed, her bodice was unbuttoned, and one of her curls was dangling loose. The stable master was helpfully tucking it back for her. “More, lass, more; syllabub takes a lot of whipping, not to worry.” So Mag kept on whipping.

There was an indefinable shiver throughout the kitchen as the Head Cook entered, slipping in from the pantry hall. The Head Cook was tall and bony and had never, ever been seen to eat anything – he appeared to cook by sight and scent alone. He moved silently about the kitchen, stopping here and there to study the assistant cooks and cook’s helpers and kitchen maids and baking boys at their tasks. Mag held her breath as he paused next to her, watching for a long time, his brow furrowed. 

“Butter,” he finally murmured; then glided away. 

Mag gasped. Second Cook snapped to attention, throwing up her hands (and consequently pushing the stable master out the door), and hurried over. 

“Oh, my, oh my! Butter it is! It should never have been beaten this long.” Mag opened her mouth to protest, but quickly thought the better of it. “Well, we’ll use up this butter with the nuncheon. Get it into a crock, quickly; you’ve wasted enough time on this, silly girl.”

Mag bit her lip, blinking back her tears as she searched for a crock. She could hear the Head Cook’s voice, droning, repeating with infinite patience, until Second Cook finally understood. “Mix in the lemon juice? And the peel? With the butter? And cook the chicken in it?”

_Rosemary,_ Mag thought to herself, trying not to sniff. _Add some rosemary, too._ But the Head Cook said nothing more.

“Ahhh –” Second Cook finally understood. “New girl! Bring that butter, quickly, and the lemon too. No dilly-dallying, or it’s back to the scullery with you! What I need around here is a girl who will follow directions.”


	5. Chef's Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday ficlet for Lady_branwyn, originally published October, 2006.

When she was working alone in the kitchen, Mag liked to imagine what it will be like when she is Cook.

The first thing to go, of course, would be those dull old menus. Always the same food, always prepared the same way, week in and week out. Although she’d only been promoted to cook’s helper a short time before, she was quick to notice that familiarity had led to boredom had led to carelessness. Greenstuffs weren’t quite as fresh as they could be; meat that had gone a bit grey was disguised with a too-salty sauce; green spots in the cheese were spooned away. There didn’t seem to be any real wrongdoing that she could see; it just seemed as though no one really cared.

No, she thought as she chopped heaps of soft carrots and sprouting potatoes, she would run things quite differently. First off, she would borrow a corner of the garden at the Houses to grow her own fresh herbs for the kitchen – basil and fennel and the oddly scented coriander she had discovered down in the Eastern Market. Each week she would discreetly introduce something new – a spicy sauce of tomatoes and peppers for the breakfast eggs; a crusty bread topped with rosemary and cheese for luncheon. 

“You, girl! Where is Cook?” The Chamberlain’s voice interrupted her reverie. It wasn’t that she was afraid of the Chamberlain; she had very little to do with him at all. She just hadn’t expected to see him in the kitchen – he always dealt directly with Cook. Cook, actually, was ill; had taken to his bed suffering of the head cold that seemed to be running rampant throughout the household. Second Cook had taken to _her_ bed, too; not with a head cold but with the Stablemaster. “You can mind the kitchen for a bit, that’s a good girl,” she had said airily, as the Stablemaster was pulling her by the arm down the hallway toward her chamber. And so Mag was in the kitchen alone when the Steward’s own Chamberlain arrived.

“Chicken soup, and be quick about it. My Lord Ecthelion is ill, and his lady is tending him herself.”

“There’s none ready, sirra, at the moment, but..”

“None ready? Where is Cook? I’ll have his head for this. This whole great kitchen and no food when it’s called for? Preposterous.”

Mag gripped the edge of the table, fighting to control the wobbling of her knees. “I can have soup ready in half an hour, sirra. Perhaps you could take up some ginger tea for him, instead, and explain to his lady that we will have soup just as soon as may be?”

“Ginger tea, eh?” The Chamberlain paused, peering closely at the freckle-faced young girl. His mother had always made _him_ ginger tea when he was a boy with a stuffy head. Perhaps…

“From Lebennin, are you?” The girl nodded vigorously. “Ginger tea it is.” He watched approvingly as the she quickly chopped a knob of ginger into the teapot, slicing in half a lemon before adding boiling water from the kettle on the hob. Deftly she prepared a tray, linen mat and teapot and two cups, a small pot of honey and a plate of sugar biscuits. The girl had poise, that was for certain. “I’ll be back in an hour for the soup. Good job on the tea.” 

Mag was speechless for a moment, but only a moment, for she had much to do. Before she left, the Second Cook had set the chickens to simmer, but now Mag noticed to her dismay that that was _all_ Second Cook had done – in her haste she had forgotten the seasonings, the clove-studded onion, the leafy celery tops, the carrot and thyme. All Mag had to work with was chicken, falling off the bones, and bland looking broth. 

_Take a deep breath, and think, girl,_ she said to herself, and as she breathed she remembered a little tavern on the third level, the aroma of roast chicken and rosemary. She had stopped and ordered a meal, the first time she had ever done such a thing, a young girl on her own in the City. The man and woman running the tavern had set her at a small table under the rose arbor, and brought her cold white wine and chicken and flatbread and tangy greens with bits of red onion and salty ham. But before that, a bowl of soup – 

Chicken. Lemon. Garlic. Dill. A bit of rice, left over from luncheon; finally, an egg beaten into the hot broth, turning the soup silky and golden. 

The Chamberlain lifted the lid of the tureen, sniffed appreciably, nodded; then, with his customary dignity, carried the tray off.

~*~

“This kitchen smells good. What have you been up to?” Cook had dragged himself back to work; sensibly, he was supervising the dinner preparations from his seat by the fire. Second Cook had reappeared, straightening her skirts, just moments before he had.

Mag had prepared as much as she could of the dinner, leaving the final tastings and seasonings to Cook, as was customary; though because of his stuffed head he graciously appointed Second Cook the honors. Second Cook had added the sprinkle of pepper and the slice of lemon, the same seasonings and adornments that Mag had seen added to the baked fish, week in and week out, the four years she had been there. 

Later that evening, they were all stunned when the Chamberlain himself stopped by to return the tureen and tray.

“Excellent soup,” he said to Cook, and rightly so, because Cook was responsible for everything that came from his kitchen. 

“I thank you,” Cook replied graciously, nodding toward Second Cook. “She prepared it,” because, for all he knew, she had. Second Cook curtseyed, trying desperately to conceal her confusion.

“Well done, then,” the Chamberlain murmured, and bid them good-night.

Mag bowed her head, chuckling to herself. Only she had seen the Chamberlain’s broad wink as he left.


	6. Sex in the City

“Oral History,” they call it, another fine idea from dear Faramir, I mean, my Lord Steward: the notion that we, who lived here through the Siege, have stories to tell that are just as valuable as the memoirs and dispatches of the Great. So he has sent historians and scribes all over the city, earnest young people, to ask their questions, so that we may be a part of the history of our great city. 

My historian was young, and serious, already balding, with a long curling beard, solemn and tense. His scribe was also young, neat linen cap on her head, and a shy smile. He asked sober historical questions: _Did you find the presence of the young messenger boys to be a help, or a hindrance? Please give specific examples._ She, wide-eyed, would interject every now and again: _What kind of foods did you stock? How did you store water?_ His questions I would answer with sobriety equal to his; for hers, I let my storytelling run full rein. He did not seem happy when they left; she tried to conceal her smile as I gaily waved them away. Later, she came back by herself, without her paper and quill. 

_Why did you never marry, Mag?_ She daintily sips spiced tea and nibbles a scone, while I think, pondering how much to tell her. They say things are changing in our City even as we speak; that though our King has waited many years for his throne, he has had long to think upon how he will set about his reign. “A new broom sweeps clean,” so they say; but those of us who have waited and hoped for changes must now wait for other needs to first be met. But we have learned patience in all our years. 

Why did I never marry? Perhaps when I was young I saw well enough the wages of romance: my sister, a glowing bride at sixteen, a careworn widow, mother of four, at twenty-two. Of course I’m sure my brother-in-law did not plan to be gored to death by an angry boar; his thoughts were of roast pork and smoked hocks, feasts for his growing family throughout the winter. He should never have got himself between the mother and her piglets. You would have thought, though, that he would have told someone of his plans to hunt. It was a long week before they found him, or what was left of him after the forest creatures had their fill; but then it was only the wheeling of the carrion-birds that gave us the hint. 

So I had seen what sighs and kisses and sidelong glances had bought for her, and I knew, young as I was, that I did not want the same. I would be beholden to no man; I would earn my own bread; and most important, no brats, no man, would ever tie me down. So I left home, clear-eyed and ready, at thirteen; shook the dust of Lebennin from my feet, and never looked back.

~*~

The truth of the matter is, I never really felt inclined.

From the ages of thirteen to sixteen, the apprenticeship years, we were kept fairly well protected. We slept in dormitories, we had by law two hours of schooling a day, reading and writing and figuring, our pay was doled out to us, after half was sent off to our parents. They did not wish us drinking or gambling or frittering our money away! At least, not all of it. Once a month we got a half-day to go and visit the market, suitably chaperoned of course. It took three years to organize a safe, effective means of passing notes and organizing secret meetings; by then, of course, all the plotting was unnecessary. 

For at sixteen, we were considered adults, and that was when all our troubles began. We could move to more responsible and well-paid positions, sign contracts on our own behalf, earn and spend our own money, drink, gamble, or fornicate to our heart’s content. The joys of adulthood. 

I liked the raise in pay and responsibility (from scullery maid to kitchen maid, oh ho!). I liked sending a bit of money home because I could, I liked having a bit to spend on pretty things. After a while I tired of buying pretty things, for I had no place to keep them in my little cubby under the stair, so I just saved my money. I never had to pay for a drink, for though I was quiet and shy, most times, I had a pretty enough face, and enjoyed going about the City with Niallis and our other friends. 

One thing I was not sure of was lovemaking, in the general kind of sense. Nall seemed to take to it right away, always had soldiers or shopboys or healing-interns hanging about. I held back – I suppose it was from remembering my sister, and the lessons I had learned from her life. But strangest of all, I felt no urge – no dark eyes or lilting voice lit flames in my belly; no songs stirred me to lift my skirts and dance with abandon. I saw it all around me, but like the still place in the center of a whirling dust-cloud, I was unmoved. At least where young men were concerned. 

By nineteen, though, I was restless, and curious, and decided it was time to learn about such things. Certainly there would have been no lack of volunteers from within our circle of friends; yet for such a private matter I felt best that they remain uninvolved – I could not bear the thought of teasing, or having sheep’s eyes made at me when I knew there would be no future in it. Although there was no question of love or even affection being involved, I did have certain standards of intelligence and hygiene, if not winsomeness and charm. Finally, I identified a likely candidate to assist me in this project, observing his habits and coolly laying my plans. A scrawny healing-intern, with dark, stringy hair, and a long nose. He appeared to have no friends: this was good, because he wouldn’t blab; he was quite thin and bony; also good: I could lure him with food. He read books: this was the most helpful of all, for if he read books, and was a healing-intern, then he would probably at least have some idea of how to go about what I was planning to have him do.

I knew where he always sat at midday in the garden, under the monkey-puzzle tree; so I started going there, too. The first week I went every day with a warm meat-pasty in my hand, which I ate carefully, delicately, licking each bit of crust and gravy from my fingers like a cat. I saw his nostrils twitch at the delectable odor, yet always he ignored me, concentrating on his book.  
The second week, I brought a meat-pasty and two apples, which I set out in front of me as I ate. For the first time, I spoke to him.

“Would you like an apple?”

“No.”

“Very well, I shall eat it myself.”

And so I did. 

The next day:

“Would you like an apple?”

“No.”

“Very well, I shall eat it myself.”

And I did. 

This went on for three days. 

The fourth day: “Would you like an apple?” He lay down his book and stared at me. “Yes, thank you.” He took and tucked it in his pocket, returning to his reading; but as I left, I peeked back and saw him yank it out and devour it, ravenously. 

The next day, I brought an apple, and a chunk of cheese, which he accepted, graciously, nibbling as carefully and thoughtfully as if he were one of the great lords of the City. I excused myself before he was finished, but again as I left I peeked back; and saw the expression of rapturous bliss on his face as his bit into the chunk of good Lossarnach cheddar. 

On the fifth day, he did not appear. Nor on the sixth, seventh, or eighth. 

On the ninth day, he was back. I had heard of the four days of oral and written examinations for the healing-interns; I had also heard of the results and knew he was not to be sent away, at least not this year. I wouldn’t have cared if he had been; in fact it probably would have been better; but I wanted to get my use out of him first. Such a cold hussy I was, then!

So on this day I brought him a gift: a stick of smoked sausage, in addition to the bread and apples and cheese I set out for lunch. He looked at me sideways when I gave it to him, as if he suspected some trick; but when I told him it was in celebration of his examinations being over he seemed to relax just a bit. He didn’t smile, though – I never knew him to smile, in all the time we spent together.

“Have you heard of the starshower expected tonight?” I asked, startling him, for we were not inclined toward conversation. It seemed a safe enough topic; how could he not be aware, since the astronomers and soothsayers and singers had been going on and on about nothing else for weeks? He peered at me curiously, as if surprised that a kitchen maid would know of such things, but I was used to his standoffishness and blithely ignored his reaction. Of course I knew that he spent his evenings out here, staring at the night sky as if it held the answer to every question we mortals could ever ask. There was no question but that he would be here.

When the last glimmers of sunset were fading over the western hills, I went to the garden. I walked stiffly, for I had half a cut lemon stuffed up inside myself – my first concern, when I concocted this plan, was to be certain no brat would come of it. I asked one of the healing women, not the oldest nor the youngest, but the one who looked to have a fair bit of knowledge as well as a no-nonsense air. She told me not only about the lemon, but what I would have to do to be able to get it up inside me; it was a good thing I had a small cubby room of my own to practice in! I had pretended a cough for several days, finally being offered hot lemon water to soothe my throat, to cover the loss of that much fruit. 

In a basket over my arm I had my treasure: two roast chicken legs, a chunk of cheese, grapes, bread, and, most vital of all, a small flask of brandy – my share of the keg gifted to the kitchen staff by my Lord Steward Ecthelion last Mettarë. I didn’t know at the time what I would ever do with it, but now I was very glad that I had set it aside for an emergency. I was a bit worried, though, as to how much brandy would be needed to get him drunk enough to do what I wanted, but not so much that he would pass out on me before the deed was done. Or even worse, drink all my brandy, not pass out, but still be incapable! I had listened carefully to horrible and terrifying stories on the subject, and knew all kinds of things could go wrong with my plan. Though I appeared quite calm, inside my heart was clattering in my chest.

I need not have worried so much. He ate steadily, working his way through each item before going on to the next. He drank steadily, yet sparingly, of the brandy, and even thought to offer it to me as well. I turned down a nip then, but later as we lay side by side on the blanket, staring up at the stars, I took a hefty swig.

 _No time like the present,_ I thought, and cuddled closer to him. He startled, yet did not move away – a good sign. 

After a bit, I took his hand, and put it on my breast. Again, a sharp hiss; but then, was that a squeeze? 

Encouraged, I slid my hand over his leg. Another squeeze to my breast; and now I could hear his breathing: rapid, raspy.

My hand slid over his crotch, and lingered there: something was stirring. 

His hand slid under my bodice, I could feel his fingers splayed out, searching.

Then, surprisingly, he reached over and kissed me.

He tasted mostly of brandy, which was probably good. I had heard of all the business with the tongues, and so knew what to do, but was surprised that he did – perhaps he had read some other kinds of books. The kissing seemed to encourage him quite a bit, so that he soon had both hands inside my clothes, and I had his breeches undone.

I’m not exactly sure of what happened next, or in what order. I remember reaching inside his breeches, and putting my hands on something, but then I was on my back with skirts up and he was between my legs. To be honest, I had never expected such a quick and knowledgeable reaction – I thought I would have to do all the work. Well, I did have to do all the preparatory work of the seduction, but when it came to the actual deed, all that was taken out of my hands, so to speak.

It was quick, and not particularly painful – I suppose the bit with the lemon had spared me that – and when he was done, he did not immediately jump up and run away, as I half expected (and secretly hoped). He lay back on the blanket, reached for the brandy, and offered it to me first. I took a nip, then waited as he knocked back a swig.

“Why?” he asked.

“I wanted to know what it was like.”

“Why me?”

I decided on honesty – it’s never failed me, though it has cost me some so-called friends. I didn’t know if he would fit into that category after all was said and done.

“You didn’t seem like someone who would blab about it.”

In the dim light of the garden lanterns, it was impossible to see his expression. Hurt? Angry? Bewildered? I finally thought I could make out something like relief. He nodded, and without another word, lay back on the blanket, his eyes turned skyward.

I lay down next to him, for warmth; his arm did not go around me, but neither did he move away. We watched the stars flaring overhead for some time, then, I got up, took my basket, and left. 

The next day, I found my blanket, neatly folded, there in the garden, but he never came there again. Occasionally I would run into him, in the courtyard or on a street in the city; we would nod politely, but not ever speak. He eventually completed his healer’s training; then took additional training in the preparation of ointments and potions, becoming quite well known for his skills. He never married, so far as ever heard.

I had a few others besides him; I wanted to make sure I was not missing something important. Some were quite skilled and enthusiastic; others were worse than nothing. None of them stirred me. Only one lilting voice ever lit flames in my belly; but the time was not yet right for her to hear of it.

~*~

_Why did you never marry, Mag?_

I smiled my wise-woman smile and patted the young scribe’s hand. 

“I suppose I just never met the right man, dear.”


	7. As Bees to a Flower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday ficlet for Marta, originally posted July, 2008

In the belowstairs hierarchy, Mormegil outranked us all, answering directly to Lord Denethor himself rather than to Chamberlain or Cook or Warden, though he was only a few years older than we were. Quiet and unassuming as he was, I did not know him very well; yet he looked so forlorn, stepping aside for the chattering horde of kitchen maids and stable boys and young guardsmen headed out to celebrate the Harvest Festival. "Come with us!" I cried impulsively, catching him by the sleeve. Niallis grinned at me, eyes dancing, and pulled him by the other hand, sweeping him with us into the flow of revelers pouring along the edges of the Courtyard, through the gate and down to the City below.

Our group swelled and shrank like a bee-swarm. Some left to meet with other friends on street corners and courtyards; others joined us, singing bawdy versions of the harvest anthems as old women glared at us and old men hooted with laughter. Finally we ended up at _The Buzzing Bee_ , a small tavern on the second level whose proprietor didn't seem to mind being overrun by apprentices and students and footmen at Harvest time. The food at _The Buzzing Bee_ was undistinguished except for the onion pie, a great wheel of chewy, crusty bread topped with fried onions and goat cheese. We'd order round after round, washing it down with nut-brown ale or crisp cider. There was usually music, of an energetic, raucous sort, and a small area cleared for dancing. 

I did not care much for dancing, and had learned after my first few festivals in the White City to drink carefully, so mostly I entertained myself with watching other people. Two shopgirls stopped to flirt with Mormegil, flustering him with their attention, so that he stuttered his replies; a newly-minted corporal of the guards lured them away with a pitcher of spiced wine. Niallis ate little but danced much, drinking from the cups her partners offered, laughing all the while. Her honey-colored curls had come unbound, and her cheeks were flushed; she was as lovely and artless as a wildflower. I watched Mormegil stealing glances at her as if she were the sun after a month of rain. _Oh, dear,_ I thought to myself; then I kicked him under the table. He looked startled. 

“Please, don't,” I said. 

“Don't what?”

“Please don't fall in love with Nall. No good will come of it, I assure you.” 

A slow flush began to creep up from his throat. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

“And I'm sure you do.” Impulsively, I reached over to pat his hand; his fingers were short but his nails were beautifully manicured; I suppose he had to keep in practice, for Lord Denethor to look so impeccable each day. 

“Are you jealous of her?” I was surprised by his quick flash of anger, something I'd not expected; he'd always seemed too shy to be so forthright. Suddenly I felt very proud of him. He'd do quite well in his difficult position, no shrinking from trouble at all.

“No, I'm not jealous, but, you see, I've known her since we were five years old, the dun moth to her butterfly. She's not got a mean bone in her body, our Niallis, but she's thoughtless. I like you, Mormegil, I really do, too much to want to see your heart broken.” 

He nodded then, looking down at the table, and I felt a pang of regret. How much ale had I had, to babble so, and what right to meddle? He was a grown man, and certainly able to make his own decisions; his heart was his to give or hold. Yet I could see him continue to watch her covertly as she moved about the room, trailing laughter and good cheer behind her like the scent of honeysuckle; and after a while I thought I heard him give a small sigh. Then, I noticed he was looking sidelong at me. _Oh, no,_ I wondered, _how am I going to get out of this?_ *

Suddenly the tavern door was flung open and, to my relief, two girls came in, a loud roistering girl named Ilensi and her quieter friend, Mirri. Ilensi and I had spent some enjoyable hours together last Mettarë while Niallis and Mirri were off celebrating with the Citadel Guard. Impulsively I called out to them, pulling Ilensi down to sit on the bench next to me. “Mag! It's been forever!” she exclaimed, then she kissed me enthusiastically on the lips, as I knew she would. I could sense, across the table, Mormegil's flinch. _It's better this way, really,_ I thought to myself. 

“Oh, 'Lensi, you're making a scene,” Mirri said, rolling her eyes as she smiled ruefully at Mormegil. He ventured a shy grin back, and I breathed a silent sigh of relief. 

“Bring on the ale! We apprentices are thirsty!” Ilensi boomed, and we roared our agreement as the tavern-keeper shook his head, laughing.


	8. A Breath of Fresh Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the request _Mag talking to Finduilas, any age Mag, for any reason at all_

At first I did not recognize the young woman wandering through the garden; then, as she came closer, I remembered that Lord Denethor was away in the field, leaving his new bride to continuing exploring the City on her own. 

“You grow the cooking herbs here, yourself? What a wonderful idea!” She knelt down beside me in the wet grass, her eyes sparkling. “I was surprised to recognize coriander in one of your sauces. I did not know it was used here.”

“Nay, lady, not often; some friends down in the third circle introduced me to it. But I don’t know very much else to do with it, I’m afraid.”

“Have you tried rubbing it on fish, in a paste of garlic and lemon grass? That is how we fix it sometimes in Dol Amroth.” I shook my head, stunned at the idea that a princess would be giving me cooking suggestions.

“Lemon grass, my lady? I’ve not heard of that, but I’ll ask down in the market.”

“No, let me write home –” she paused, blushing just a bit, to correct herself. “Let me write to my father’s chamberlain, and have him speak to the gardener about sending some. It will do well in that sunny corner, I think.” She stood up, graceful as a young girl, unself-consciously wiping the dew from her skirt. “I have enjoyed speaking with you, Mag, is it?”

I rose also to bob a curtsey. “So it is, my lady, and the pleasure is mine. A good day to you.” She walked slowly back through the garden, stopping every now and again to admire a clump of narcissus, or cocking her head to listen to a bird song, before disappearing through the back gate.

_She is like a breath of fresh air,_ I thought, _a cool breeze from the sea. Nothing will be the same now that she is here._


	9. Secret Ingredient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, _Mag cooks with a new ingredient_ , followed closely by, _I know! Sea salt!_

**Secret Ingredient**

"A gift from my brother, but in his note he directs me to share it with you," Lady Finduilas said. She read, " 'This is sea salt, finely ground with dried rose petals. I leave it to Mag to determine a proper use for it, since no-one in the market place seemed to be able to.' Smell it, Mag!" 

She held the jar under my nose. It had a grassy, earthy smell, not entirely unpleasant, but not exactly inspiring, either. _Thank you, Prince Imrahil, for sending me such a challenge, I thought wryly._

"Interesting!" I said, catching the gleam of mischief in my lady's eyes. We both laughed. We'd try it once - an omelet with herbs and cheese, perhaps, or a vinaigrette for summer fruits? - thank the Prince prettily, and toss the rest into the bath with lavender and freesia oil. My lady did love a flowery-scented bath.


	10. Mag Meets the Great Love of Her Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Birth"

We had never seen him so: somber Lord Denethor, radiant with joy as he showed off his firstborn son. Proudly he carried him throughout the house; the whole staff "ooh"-ing and "ahh"-ing as expected.

Sweaty and dusted with flour, it seemed a poor time for me to catch my lord's eye. But there was no escape, and with a shy curtsey I stepped forward. The babe was handsome enough, not so reddish and squished as some I’d seen. I was prepared to mouth some meaningless compliment when suddenly he opened his eyes, gazing straight into mine; and I was lost.


	11. Kitchen Help

Her powerful hands work the dough, pushing, pulling, adding in flour where the dough is sticky, judging the perfect moment to sprinkle in bits of citron and almonds. She has done this every day for the past thirty years – there is no one else in this kitchen she can trust to knead dough properly, no matter what _some_ of them might think.

“Are those sweet rolls? Or scones? We haven’t had scones in a long time. Don’t you ever get tired of fixing sweet rolls? ”

“Nay, my little lord, you know by now that rolls are kneaded and scones are rolled. I don’t know why, but that’s the way ‘tis. Did we not have scones a week ago, when your mother had guests to visit? I’m sure I remember you rolling some out yourself. You gave them silly faces made of raisins, and we baked them and sent them to your father with his tea.” As she speaks she nips off bits of dough, always exactly the same size, rolling them into smooth ovals between her palms, setting them into the pan, sides touching just so. 

“That was funny! I remember now. ‘Mag, those were exceptionally delicious scones you sent, and very different looking, too!’ Do you think he knew that _I_ made them?”

“I’m not sure that he would want to know that his son, the future Steward of Gondor, was helping in the kitchen, even at six years old. Still, those scones did make him smile, so I’m sure he had an idea who was responsible.” 

“He loves us, doesn’t he, Mag? He loves me, because I’m his son, and he loves you, because you make us sweet rolls and scones and all these other good things. We make him happy.”

“That we do, my little lord, that we do.” She wipes her floury hands on her apron, then nods to the baking boy to set the pans in the oven, exactly where she has showed him, so that they’ll bake evenly, goldenly. In a little while she’ll go check, to make sure he has followed her instructions - she’s served perfect sweet rolls for thirty years, and she’s not about to let a careless baking boy spoil her reputation now.


	12. Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the suggestion _I think she's wanting to tell the story of the time Faramir and Boromir came down with Gondorian Chicken Pox._

There were some who swore that this plague was a tool of the enemy, devised to break the spirit of the city. Adults sickened only mildly, suffering a slight fever and mild rash, but in children angry red spots, peeling skin, and delirium were not uncommon. Some children had even died. And by then, of course, it was too late to shield the Steward’s sons.

Faramir, newly weaned and barely toddling, suffered only the merest flush of fever, treated with tiny bites of melon and sips of cool lemon water. Only one spot appeared, on his left foot; Nanny wrapped it in gauze under his cotton stockings, securely fastening his soft leather boot over all.

Boromir was not so fortunate. At first in his fever he fought Nanny as she tried to clip his finger- and toe-nails, as the healers had recommended, to keep him from scratching the lesions open. Later, as he continued to sicken, Finduilas, Denethor, Nanny, and even Prince Imrahil took it in turns to sit with him, trying to spoon cool water into his mouth, yet he barely responded. 

And Boromir and Faramir were not the only children of the household so afflicted: Mag and the entire kitchen staff were endlessly preparing lemon and barley water for those still sick, light and nourishing meals for those recovering, and trying to help out as they could with other household tasks. 

Niallis stopped by, bringing a basket of clean linens from the Houses to replenish the supply. Mag paused for just a moment to catch her breath and exchange news, none of it very encouraging.

“I remember once,” Nall said, “when I was small, and had a fever. I dreamed of lavender, running and playing and then falling asleep in a field of lavender. When I woke up, my room smelled of lavender, and sage, and elder blossom, and I was all better.”

Mag stared at her for a moment. Lavender. Being sponged with lavender water, cool and refreshing, and drinking honey-sweetened sage tea - that was what she remembered from when she herself had been small. 

“Bless you, darling girl!” she kissed Nall soundly, then ran to the still room, where last summer’s lavender and sage and mint hung, ready.


	13. Feeding the Beasts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the tolkien_weekly prompt "Proof"

“How does the bread come out puffy, Mag, if the dough starts out flat?” Faramir asked. 

“Some folk say there are tiny beasts inside, yeasty-beasts. First we feed them warm honeywater, then sugar and flour and eggs. Set them in a warm place; while they rest, their sleepy breath swells up the dough.”

“And then we bake it, and eat up the yeasty-beasts! With jam!” Faramir chortled. I was happy to hear it; he had become rather soft-hearted on the subject of food lately. Thank goodness invisible yeasty-beasts did not arouse the same sympathy as the creatures in the marketplace.

Proof (Culinary):   
a. to test the effectiveness of (yeast), as by combining with warm water so that a bubbling action occurs.   
b. to cause (esp. bread dough) to rise due to the addition of baker's yeast or other leavening. 


	14. Mischief

It was rare, and precious, and when they saw that it was to be served at the banquet (to which they had _not_ been invited), they began to plot how to get some of their own.

Boromir (as usual) would provide the distraction, while Faramir made the snatch-and-grab. 

“Don’t be underfoot, my little lords, we have too much to do here today." The normally unruffled Mag seemed unusually frazzled today. "Take some sugared almonds, and run along, that’s a good lad. And some apricots for Faramir, too. Now be gone, please.”

“Who’s at the banquet? What did you fix? Do you fix our kinds of food, or foods from other lands? How do you know what they like? Have they ever gotten into a fight because they didn’t like the food?” With every question Boromir moved further away from their quarry, as Faramir slipped closer; but no one ever suspected _him_ of trouble. But Faramir knew the secret signal, and was ready … 

“A mouse!” Boromir cried. “I just saw a mouse fall in the sauce! It was running along the dish-shelf, there, and it fell right in!”

_“What?”_

With howls and shrieks and clattering of pots and pans Mag, the assistant cook, the two cook’s helpers, the baking boy, the two kitchen wenches, and the two scullery maids dashed toward the sauce pot. Boromir neatly sidestepped the frenzied mob, then slipped out the kitchen door.

Quick as a mouse himself, Faramir dashed to where the cook’s helper had been readying the desserts. Grabbing a half-full serving pot and two spoons, he scurried out the scullery door.

Boromir was waiting at the rendezvous, under the monkey-puzzle tree in the far corner of the north garden of the Houses of Healing. 

“Well done, little brother!” Faramir beamed with pride. “Lemon ice! There’s nothing as wonderful in all the world. When _I_ am Steward, we shall have it for your birthday, and my birthday, and whenever we want it. That’s the good thing about being Steward – people have to do what you want. It’s _almost_ as good as being King.”


	15. Bitter Medicine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in answer to the question, _I wonder what would happen should Denethor order up some dish against Mag's inclination_. This turned out to be more against Nanny’s inclination, but since they often seem to share a brain (much like their scribes), it all came out right in the end.
> 
> Nanny is the creation of the lovely [Edoraslass](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoraslass/pseuds/Edoraslass) and is used, as always, with her permission.

“Lord Denethor has _ordered_ ,” Nanny said, through gritted teeth, “that Faramir is to have calves' liver, twice a day, until his strength is restored. _Twice_ a day!”

I considered for a moment. “ ‘Tis true, his winter cold has persisted much longer than usual, and he could use some feeding up. There are other foods that would do as well: oat porridge with molasses, coddled eggs and spring greens in broth, lentil soup. Why has he fixed on calves' liver, of all things? And how is Faramir taking it?”

She sighed. “To be honest, Mag, I do not know. Perhaps it is ancient texts on healthy eating Lord Denethor studies up in his tower. Poor Faramir! He turned even paler when he heard; Boromir, of course, excused himself quickly and headed for the practice yard. It would take more than a lingering cough to weaken _him_ , he’s strong as a horse”.

Laughing, I patted her on the shoulder. Nanny’s protectiveness of the two boys was near legendary in the household: her fury could just as easily come from the intimation that she was lacking in care. “Don’t worry on Faramir’s account. I’ll make such magic with calves' liver as the rest of them will be begging to share. We’ll have him better in no time.”


	16. Boys Will Be Boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expanded version of a drabble written for the "Change of Heart" challenge at tolkien_weekly.

What made Boromir open his eyes was the scent of cinnamon.

He remembered running, on a dare, along the top of the high stone wall. Stumbling, falling, the sickening _thud_ as he landed, forgetting altogether that marvelous drop-and-roll that the younger guardsmen had taught him. 

He remembered howling, thrashing, as the healers reset his shoulder, bound his collarbone, arm, and wrist. 

He didn’t want to remember any more. Mostly, he wanted to be dead: from the embarrassment, the humiliation, the pain. How could he ever be Captain-General if he could not stand pain without wailing like a baby?

For two days he slept, or pretended to, ignoring every visitor. _No head injury, my Lord, this is very odd indeed,_ he heard, screwing his eyes shut. 

On the third day, what made him open his eyes was the scent of cinnamon: a bowl of creamy porridge, a baked apple, a cup of sweet milky tea.

“Time for breakfast, my lamb!” Mag chirped. 

Perhaps he _would_ live, after all.


	17. Stag and Star

“Mag, Mag!” I looked up, smiling, at the sound of Prince Imrahil’s voice. Dashing and good-natured, the young prince was a frequent and welcome visitor to our kitchen. “I want to show you something, privately.” He took my arm, and I could feel him quivering with barely-suppressed excitement as he led me off to the quiet corner where I kept my accounts.

“Smell this.” He passed me a small, scratchy bag, slightly open at the top; I held it to my nose, inhaling deeply. A strong, bitter scent, redolent of earth and smoke; almost overpowering, but strangely intoxicating.

“It’s called _gahwa,_ ” he whispered. “It comes as small, greenish beans. Roast them, grind them, then brew them like tea. Add spices if you like, cinnamon or mace; drink it by itself, or with cream, or honey.” He leaned closer. “Mark my words, one day it will be more popular than ale, beer, or wine. They say the drink incites passion, banishes weariness, and sharpens the mind. I know of a trader, who knows of a farmer, who is willing to sell us his whole harvest each season. If there were something like a tavern, serving _gahwa_ rather than ale, we could….” 

I nodded, easily catching his drift. Our prince had a shrewd mind and a restless energy that had not yet found its proper outlet. He had steered me toward some profitable ventures before; thanks to his guidance, I had a tidy sum of money tucked away. 

“How much?” I asked.

He murmured a figure, less than I had imagined; he must be planning to invest a nice bit himself. A good sign. His name would nowhere be associated with the tavern, but his visits there would be noted, and those who sought to mimic the fashionable young lord would be quick to gather there as well. 

“I know of a little place, the Stag and Star, down on the third circle. Mardi’s husband recently passed on, and she’s finding running the tavern alone a bit too much. Not a fancy neighborhood, but a lively one; this sounds like something she’d enjoy. I’ll talk to her. What else should I do?”

“Take these.” He tucked the little bag into the pocket of my apron. “Start serving it to the Lord Steward, and then, perhaps, at some small dinners. A few lords, some merchants; and their sons, of course. Dandies of the city, like me.” He grinned, his white teeth gleaming wickedly. “We want word of it to get around. First, we’ll create the desire, and then” – he snapped his fingers – “we will fulfill it. We’ll make _gahwa_ the most popular drink in the world, and our little tavern will be famed for ages to come.”


	18. Ivy Dain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for the Back to Middle-Earth Month Bingo Challenge, March, 2012. Bingo square “All OC’s, All the Time”: A Housekeeper

She was a scrawny, sallow-faced bit of a girl, barely thirteen when I met her; I don’t know whose niece or cousin or even petty-noble's bastard she was, to have snagged a position as an under-parlormaid at the Steward’s house. Certainly, there was plenty of work to it; the under-parlormaid was the one to haul buckets and mops, beat rugs, bat away cobwebs - but the under-parlormaids got their meals and a snug bed, and a bit of coin, and a half-day off every other month. So even if their room was way up under a turret, and the bed shared with three other scullery-minions and underlings - well, there were certainly much, much worse places for a young girl to work in the White City. And Ivy Dain was a good little worker, we could all see that. 

The only problem was, she was afraid of the Chamberlain. Absolutely terrified - you’d think he was a two-headed troll by the way she’d cower whenever he was anywhere near. And by “anywhere near”, it could be, if he were talking to me at my work table, conferring about an early nuncheon for our lord or whatnot, and she were ‘way round the back steps leading down to the scullery, I’d catch a glimpse of her out the corner of my eye, setting her mop and pail out the way, and skittering away like a baby mouse in a barnful of cats. 

I had to know why, so I asked her, over scones and warm milk of an evening, what there was about him that frightened her so. I knew him to be a strict master but not an unfair one, a good and honest man, a generous one, devoted to his elderly parents - but, on the other hand, who knows every secret? And I liked this girl; if there were some kind of trouble, I’d want to help her out, and deal with him later if need be. 

“Oh no, it’s nothing at all like that,” she whispered, staring down into her mug. “It’s not him at all. It’s just - it’s just - I know it’s silly but, there was a man, another man, who he reminds me of - my mother’s sister’s man. He - he did things to me, and when I tried to tell my mother, my aunt cursed me and called me a liar. And there was so much arguing, after, that I couldn't hardly sleep nor eat. Finally, my mam said that my aunt had talked to someone who knew someone who would let us know when there was an opening here. “It cost us dear,” she said, my mam, “so don’t you go fokkin’ it up.” Like that, she said it; ‘course I always knew she loved her sister more than me, so it’s right that I should be the one to go. “ She looked up at me, her hazel eyes huge in her pinched little face. 

She went on, “I’m happy to be working here - don’t mistake me, Miss Mag, please! The work is hard, sometimes, but everyone has been kind; only whenever I see my lord the Chamberlain, he reminds me of - and I just want to run somewhere and hide.“

An idea came to me then, one of my best ideas ever, I think; next to my other good idea, which was to take a hundred-year’s lease on a little house for me and Niallis to live in together. A pretty little house it was, on the Third Circle, with a garden for us to sit in evenings. Two cozy bedrooms, one for us and one for a guest, if we ever had friends to stay over from outside the City. And two more tiny rooms up in the attic, just perfect for hired help. 

You might be thinking, “You and Nall are both strong sturdy women, not afraid of to work, why on earth can’t you--” but my answer would be, “Because we don’t need to. I’m well paid for what I do, and frugal besides; I’ve never felt the need to fritter my money away. Nall’s a fritterer, but why shouldn’t she be? She works hard, too, in that laundry; if a pair of mother-of-pearl earrings or a bright embroidered shawl should catch her eye, why shouldn’t she have it? But the point I’m making is, why should we work all day, and come home and have to work more in the evening to keep our house neat and snug, when we can hire some one to do it for us, and help out a likeable young woman besides? 

Which, in a nutshell (all right, not really a nutshell) is how Ivy Dain, age thirteen, came to be our housekeeper, and how our family began.


	19. Simple Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the request _Mag and Niallis' first meeting or some little glimpse into their life together_

"It's simple, Mag! You use the hook to pull one loop through another loop. That's really all it is. Sometimes you wrap the yarn around the hook once or twice, or other times you pull the loop up from somewhere else in the chain, but that's all there is to it, really."

It seemed so effortless for Nall! She could spend hours at her hookwork. When our friends gathered she could chat, laugh, sing; never even bothering to look at the work her hands were dancing through on their own. At the end of the evening the lap-robe she'd been working on could be another whole measure longer, its bright colors curving and rippling under her fingers as if it were preening, delighted with itself. 

But I had neither patience nor skill for hookwork.. It didn't matter how perfectly soft-spun the yarn, I could knot it just by looking at it. I couldn't keep the counting straight in my head, and so my rows and rounds were forever lopsided. What was meant to be a smooth, simple cap became instead something like a misshapen flower pot. When she saw it, Nall could hardly stifle her laughter. 

I threw it down in frustration. What a waste of time! Surely there were more important things I needed to be doing in the kitchen. But the damned thing tangled itself under my feet, until I ended up kicking it across the room. 

Nall laughed so hard that she cried. "It's all right, Mag," she said, gasping, and wiping her eyes on her apron. "You cook; marvelous, amazing things. I can do this. Everyone doesn't have to be good at everything. We each have our own gifts. " 

What a fool I felt then, because she was absolutely right. My gift was to take meat, fish, fowl, and turn it into pleasing meals that satisfied the body and spirt. Nall's gift was to bring beauty to the world, through the work of her hands and her joyful, generous nature.


	20. Sweetness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A noble spirit embiggens the smallest [wo]man" - Jebediah Springfield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Back to Middle-Earth Month Bingo Challenge, March 2012. "Smoothness"

She never could understand why she was always the one sent up to teach the healer's apprentices how to make the beds. She was just a laundrymaid, after all, though she could see that it was important for them, for the discipline, their teachers said, to start their training in the Houses of Healing with the most humble of duties. She _liked_ making beds, though; spreading the sheets perfectly smooth and flat, turning under the corners just so. It was a small thing, certainly not as important as being a healer, or a surgeon, or even an herbalist (and she had come to the White City as a girl, to train as an herbalist, but there were so many plants, and so many of the leaves looked alike, how could anyone -- and so they had suggested, early on, that she perhaps she might be better suited to working in the laundry), but, as her friend Mag always said, who didn't like a nice freshly made bed to lie in, especially if they were feeling poorly? 

And the other thing she loved was stitching up the little muslin bags and filling them with dried flowers, to give the linens a sweet scent. It was a small thing, caring what bedlinens smelt like, compared to the important work the healers did, but she always thought people who were ill might be comforted by the scent of lavender and roses. Perhaps it would make them think of a summer day, a day on which they were with someone they loved, a day on which they were happy. 

And long after she was gone, cut down untimely by the wasting disease, people still spoke of her, dear Niallis, who performed the most humble of tasks with a joyful heart and a radiant spirit.


	21. The Passing of Niallis

As a girl, Nall had always loved playing with her doll-house, moving bits of wooden furniture about, setting scraps of fabrics as draperies, so we took a lease on a little house in the third circle, near the weaver’s street. She would stop and admire damasks and brocades, fine soft linens, and bright colors of yarn and floss. I did not much care how the house looked, as long as it was well made and snug, but I delighted in watching her pleasure. She loved songbirds, and flowers, so it seemed as though our garden pervaded the whole house, with baskets and tubs of poppies and lilies, jonquils and pussy-willow all about. I was appointed the manager of our combined funds (and a good thing it was, too, else we’d have had new draperies each month, and no money for meat or mead) but with careful husbandry we were able to live comfortably.

We even had a housekeeper, a sturdy young woman who soon added a laughing baby boy to our household. I watched Nall as she held him, eyes shining, and wondered if I had done right or wrong to give her the pennyroyal tea. But she never spoke of it, and so neither did I.

We had many happy years together. She was a lovely girl, and a vibrant woman; full of life and joy. There were some who might have looked down upon her, a washerwoman, but her bright spirit brought warmth and cheer to all who knew her. Even strolling through the garden of the Houses, her heavy basket on her hip, she would stop and cock her head at a bird’s song, or brighten the day for a harried healer by pointing out the first blooms of crocus in the spring. I took satisfaction in my work, as well, moving from the kitchen at the Steward’s House to the management of the Citadel kitchen, where I could spoil young lads (including my Boromir), their instructors and officers to my heart’s content. We had many friends, men and women both, of all ages, and our house rang with laughter.

I would be less than honest, though, if I led you to believe that my life was without pain; for all unthinking she could tear my heart from my breast. She had a loving nature, my Nall, but it was not in her to be as true to me as I was to her. In the early years, before we made our home together, I indulged in many pleasures with both men and women, out of curiosity, and to be certain of my choice. Nall, though, never could be sure of what she wanted, and so every now and again would disappear for a day, a week, a month. Swept up in the heat of the moment, she never thought to leave word; I would hear from a guardsman, or an innkeeper, or a serving woman: _She is here, don’t worry._ It both shamed and angered me to have so many noses in our business; but still, it was a comfort to me to know that she had not gone off with some handsome leather trader or sailor or, for all I knew, a bearded dwarf or ranger of the north.

~*~

When do we stop looking, really looking, at those we love? When do we become so accustomed to the voice, or scent, or appearance, that we do not see the change, as summer leaves turn brittle with the onset of fall? 

I should have noticed hair that once shimmered like golden wheat, now pale and dry as bleached bone. I should have listened when her coworkers mentioned how quickly she tired; how she sat now by the window, mending and daydreaming while they hauled heavy baskets and pails of water. They were not angry or chagrined at the extra work; but they wondered at the translucency of her skin, and her voice, once like birdsong, now breathless and fragile. 

I should have understood at once when the Matron came to visit me in my kitchen. It was a quiet afternoon, that peaceful hour when nuncheon is done and dinner not yet underway. We drank tea with lemon slices floating in the cup; I have never been able to bear the sight or scent of lemon since that day.

“The wasting disease,” she said. 

“How do you know? She has lost some weight is all, and her hair – she’s not too young to have gone white. Her mother was white at her age –” a lie; her mother’s hair was rich auburn all her life until the day a wasp, attracted by the flowery scent of that hair, flew down her blouse, stinging frantically as it sought to escape. We were not there to see; her brother told us the tale, how she gave a little gasp, said “oh, my,” and was dead before she touched the ground.

“She has no strength to her. She naps when she thinks we do not notice. What does she eat? Anything? I can see it in her eyes. You should have seen it, too.” She sighed, sorry to be the bearer of pain, and guilt. “She should be home, sitting in her garden until the end.”

“When will that be?” I could barely speak the words.

“Early autumn, I think. When you see the aspen trees along the river turning to gold, send word to her family. It will not be long after.”

I looked out the window, over the walls to the river far below and the faint mist of green on the trees. Spring, summer, early fall: six months.

~*~

So after thirty years, Niallis was free to spend her days sitting in her own garden. Her friends brought her some small items of mending and embroidery, to keep up the pretence that she was only home resting for a bit; their happy chatter and gossip brightened her days. Healers and apprentices, kitchen maids and shopboys took it in turns to sit with her each day until I returned from my kitchen. I would be less than truthful if I did not admit how I valued those hours of escape each day. It is hard to watch the one you love die.

For Nall would not last until autumn; that quickly became clear. It seemed as though, once the truth had been spoken, there was no reason to resist a future that promised peace and rest. In her last days she took only fruit, and well-watered mead, and lay surrounded with the scent of honey and flowers. I remember her smiling through berry-stained lips as I wiped her brow with warm water, and arranged her wisps of hair.

“Mag,” she whispered.

“Yes, dear heart?

“Thank you, for everything. I was afraid of this city, but you made it a home for me.” I could not speak, remembering our first days there, when she had wept for homesickness and trembled in fear of the noise, the soldiers, the height of the city walls.

“It was my pleasure, love. I would have been so lonely without you here.” 

She closed her eyes and nodded, peaceful, beautiful.

In the stillness after the bell of the midnight watch, she stirred again. I heard her laugh softly, an echo of the joyous girl she had been, and heard her murmur _Taurion, Taurion_. She sighed, as she had so many times in my arms; then she was quiet again.

I awoke to the riotous morning-song outside, and silence in the room.

~*~

I had word from her younger brother; he would meet us with a wagon outside the city gates, to bring her back to her family in Lebennin. The Matron and two apprentices from the Houses came to help me wash her with rosewater and anoint her with balsam before wrapping her in the soft linen shroud. I had spoken to Dorlach, the stable-master of the citadel, about borrowing a small cart and horse to carry her down to the gate. What arrived at my door was a lovely cherrywood coach, from the Steward’s own stable, and a fine chestnut gelding, elegant brass-trimmed tack gleaming. I was stunned, but Dorlach showed me the note, in my Lord Denethor’s own hand, directing his chamberlain to send them for our use throughout the day. I had heard for years that my Lord knew of everything that went on in the City, but did not believe it myself until then.

A small party, friends from the laundry and the houses and my kitchen gathered to help me escort her on her way. The gardeners had sent down sprays of golden lilies, her favorite flowers, as well as nosegays of rosemary and cornflowers for the mourners to carry. I walked alone, lost in thought, until I realized that someone had joined me at the head of the cortege: Boromir, tall and stately, clearly uncomfortable but somber and dignified in his cadet dress uniform. He nodded briefly, then composed his expression as we continued our slow pace.

I gradually grew aware that our procession was changing – many more mourners than I expected had joined us. I remember seeing Nanny, with Faramir, gangly and coltish, by her side. A platoon of citadel guards, guerdons aloft, joined us to march along either side of the bier. Flower-sellers and weavers; apothecaries; the blacksmith who repaired the laundry’s cauldrons and chimneys. A dour potion master whom I remembered from long ago. So many friends and neighbors whose lives had been touched by our darling girl. Who was I to begrudge that life of exuberant joy? Had I been cheated of even a moment of it? My Nall had love to spare, for as many of us were blessed to share in her brief life.

A slim, golden-haired man met us at the gate, twin boys at his side; Nall’s smile greeted me from the man who had been a freckled boy of five the day we left. He reached forward to embrace me, eyes wet with tears. “We thank you,” he whispered, “for keeping good care of her for us, all her life.” I could only bow my head, what was there to say? It was my Boromir who lifted the shrouded form from the coach and gave Nall over to her brother for her last ride. And it was my Boromir who led the singing as we headed home, the old traditional song: _We shall meet again in that far green land._  



	22. Alchemy Camp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In answer to the question, _What does Mag do on her vacation? Or is she too much of a workaholic?_

There were always a few quiet days, after the bustle of the harvest and the Harvest Festival, after the older cadets had been commissioned and gone off to join their companies, and before this year’s crop of boys had yet arrived. The larders would be filled with newly ground grain, lentils and barley, squash and autumn greens and hard yellow cheese. That was when Mag would leave the Citadel kitchen in the capable hands of her assistants, and take her holiday.

She never told anyone were she went. She never returned sunburned, or loaded down with parcels; in fact, no one ever saw her leave, or come back. But for weeks afterward the kitchens would be redolent of fascinating new aromas, sweet or spicy, aromatic or bitter, sometimes even burnt. She would mumble to herself distractedly, consulting her well-worn leather journal; scribble frantic notes or sigh happily as she wrote. After a time, amazing new dishes would begin to appear, as if by some hard-won magic.

~*~

I don’t go far on my holidays, just to a guest house down on the third level, run by good friends of mine, pensioned soldiers injured in who-remembers-which campaign. One is missing an eye, and the other a leg, so they jest that between the two of them they are _nearly_ a whole man, and that one man better than most! And so they are.

We start our day with early-morning tea in their tiny garden. I always wonder anew at the love and care, and tireless labor, that went into each garden in our city, the seminal soils hand-carried up the stone streets from the rich plain below. And the constant dedication that nourish these hideaways, fruit trees and flowers, herbs and birds and butterflies, to lighten our cares and enrich our lives with simple beauty.

After breakfast, I am off to the true pleasure of my holidays, wandering the marketplaces, following my nose to the most intriguing taverns and food stalls. Despite the ever-present threat and rumours of war, our City is surprisingly diverse, with a large Rohirric quarter, and even corners where veterans of Southern or Eastern campaigns have brought home foreign wives, and set up shops to recreate tastes and scents remembered from those exotic lands. Most cooks, I have found, love talking about food with those who share their interests, and so I visit and sample and chat to my heart’s content. 

Just before the midday heat I return to the guesthouse, write up my notes, and nap until the cool of evening. Then I rejoin my friends, and their friends, and we visit nearby taverns or music halls, dancing and drinking and laughing until past midnight.

Sometimes a woman, or even a man, will catch my eye. A nod, a drink, some conversation; occasionally, a bit more than that – but I am always back in that quiet garden for morning tea, every day of my holiday.


	23. Interview with Mag the Cook

**What is the strangest thing you have ever cooked?**

The very strangest thing I have ever cooked would have to have been dormice stuffed with dormice, rolled in honey and poppy seeds.  
~~~~~

Cadets from the city, or those who lived in the countryside surrounding, would go home to visit their families on Valanya, the resting day, but those who lived too far away would stay. There was no training on that day, so there were always shy ones, strangers to our city, who just moped around the Citadel yard. For their benefit, I began fixing a small supper, with treats not normally found in the dining hall, in the evening. 

When my Lord Boromir heard of it, he started dropping in himself sometimes, especially if the aromas wafting from my kitchen window led him to believe sweets were going to be served! Sometimes the boys would be quite overcome at the presence of their commander; but my darling always had a warmth about him that would make even the most diffident youngsters open up. He would always remember their names, and some small detail about them, and so captured their hearts and their loyalty quite apart that what was owed to him as Captain-General.

We had a young cadet, a boy from Harondor, who was quite homesick. I asked a merchant’s wife, who had brought up a fine load of smoked oysters and eels from the Poros, what kinds of treats a boy from that land might be longing for, so she gave me her recipe: fresh, plump dormice, stuffed with sausage and chopped nuts and dormice trimmings; roasted, then rolled in honey and poppy seeds while still warm.

I had the boy from Harondor to help me serve. I handed him the platter, saying nothing, but I noticed his eyes grew wide as saucers when he realized what it was. The other boys laughed a bit, and teased him: “Mice? You really eat _stuffed mice_?” but the platter came back to me empty, and I saw the boy go off with the others, talking and gesturing, instead of lingering alone.

**Is there anything you absolutely refuse to cook?**

  1. [Noumbles](http://www.recipesource.com/misc/medieval/noumbles1.html) \- They just smell up the kitchen, and nobody really likes them.
  2. [Cockentrice](http://www.recipesource.com/misc/medieval/cockentrice1.html) \- It's just this type of cooking frippery, favored by the Head Cook, that made me up and leave the Steward's kitchen for the Citadel! Honestly.
  3. [Baked Camel](http://www.recipesource.com/misc/weird/baked-camel1.html) \- All that prep work! Even with a full staff.
  4. [Squid in Its Own Ink](http://www.recipesource.com/ethnic/europe/basque/squid-its-own-ink1.html) \- Nope. Even if it is Prince Imrahil's favorite dish - I'd never trust the squid to be fresh enough. 
  5. [Eels Livornese](http://www.recipesource.com/ethnic/europe/italian/eel-livornese1.html) \- Or any kind of a fresh eel. They remind me too much of [snakes](http://mag-the-cook.livejournal.com/685.html#cutid1).Ugh!




	24. Clear As Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A response to a request for Boromir, Theodred, and Mag

“Look, Mag! They’re back!” The kitchen-wench was peering out the window; soon the other maids and wenches, assistant cooks, the baking-boys too, all crowded to admire our young lord and the golden prince, now returned with their escort from their visit to Pelagir. A sight to stir the blood, they were, too: those handsome Riders had caused hearts to flutter, skirts to lift and breeches to fall, all over the City. I smiled to think of the crop of yellow-haired, blue-eyed infants we would see next spring.

Far from the strained and hungry look they’d worn before, my lord and his companion now were sleek, relaxed – well, there is a word for how they looked; I’d heard my bawdiest friends use it often enough. _Satisfied_ hardly encompasses it: exhausted, yet well-pleased with themselves and the world as a whole. I stood and watched them steal shy glances at each other, as if they could not quite believe what good fortune had fallen on them in the course of their travels. Gear unloaded, company dismissed, they lingered outside the Steward’s house, deep in conversation, unable to tear themselves apart.

Of course I knew about Boromir's tastes; for two years I’d been hearing the tales. I had enough acquaintances on the lower circles watching out for him that he was never in any real danger; he had the good sense to dress simply when he was on the prowl. As for the rest, well, if he were grown-up enough to visit taverns like _The Prancing Rooster_ , then he should be man enough to accept what could happen there. _Had_ happened, and fairly often, according to what I’d heard.

But what was different, now, and clear as day, was that Boromir had fallen in love; and by the way the prince was gazing back at him, the feeling was quite mutual. And what was also quite clear was that neither of them had any idea yet of what had happened to them.

_Don’t go to your father now,_ I thought. _Compose yourself first; dampen some of that glow; scrub off his scent, no matter how much that pains you. If your father sees you now, the game will be up ‘ere it’s started._ I watched them, heads bowed together, until at last with a laugh they clapped each others’ shoulders before heading off to their apartments. I let out the breath I hadn’t known I was holding.


	25. Favor

“Mag, I need to ask a favor.”

“A favor, dear boy? You’ve already emptied my storeroom of sweets, and drained your uncle’s cask of brandy besides. What more can you ask of me?”

“I, we, I would like to borrow your chambers. Just for little while! An hour. Tonight.”

“Tonight…a tryst, is it! Wicked boy! Surely your bed is wide enough for two? Or there are any number of unused rooms there in the Steward’s house. I know they’re all kept cleaned and ready, though I don’t know for what, my lord Denethor not exactly being one for company, and Prince Imrahil having his own …”

“Well, no, um, not anywhere there in the Steward’s house. We need some, ah, privacy, Mag.”

“Privacy, is it? Let me think now: who ….Oh. Yes, indeed. Privacy, and discretion.”

“You’ll let us meet there, then? And you’ll go up to the ramparts and find him and bring him to me?”

“Bring him to you? Do you think old Mag makes such a habit of meeting young men at midnight on the ramparts that no one will mark it?”

“Oh, I didn’t think of that….perhaps…”

“Don’t worry, boy. I’ll come up with a reason to bring your handsome friend inside, and from there through the empty kitchen and hall and straight to your waiting arms.”

“Dear Mag! You are the best friend I ever had, surely.”

“No, darling boy, I’m just another poor fool used to giving you whatever you want, whenever you want it, for good or ill. I’ve spent my life doing it. What’s one more time?”


	26. From the Twin Worlds of Sodomy and Knitting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the title of a friend's journal! Too good to ignore.

An hour, ha! Though they’re both young, and besotted. There’s a lot they can accomplish in an hour. He’ll have the prince on his knees, stripped, oiled, and ready, before I’m halfway down the hall.

But young lovers should be happy, when they can; it will be a long time before those two are together again. I’ll give them a few hours, take my knitting with me, perhaps rest my eyes a bit in my chair ‘til just before dawn. Then I’ll rouse them from their sodomy, or their sleep, whichever, in time for a hearty breakfast. They’ll need it.


	27. Comfort Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four ficlets by request which all flowed together into one summery tale. Originally posted April, 2006.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requests: Boromir gardening, Faramir and Boromir relaxing, Prince Imrahil cooking, Mag preparing comfort food.

**It's A Mystery**

Though I had happy memories of our mother’s garden, I had never really thought about it once she was gone. Whenever I peered in through the wrought-iron gate, all seemed in order; so I was startled while passing by one day to find Boromir, stripped to the waist, his shoulders gleaming with sweat and streaked with dirt, manning a pair of pruning shears, a small stack of lilac-trimmings neatly piled nearby.

“I’d never imagine you to set aside the captaincy, even for a day, in favor of gardening,” I said.

Boromir laughed. “ ‘Tis mindless work, but relaxing. I like the feel of earth under my fingers. Did you ever stop to think...” He raised the stoneware crock and took a long pull of ale before offering it to me, “that when this city was built, every bit of soil in these gardens was carried up here? The grass-clippings and the leaves and flower-stems renew it, now, but it all began somewhere else. Birds and bugs have flown here, or been tossed by the breeze, carrying seed in their bellies to give us windflowers and dandelions and chokecherry bushes. But the earthworms – and there are lots of them, too – how did they get up here?”

I stared at him, totally dumbfounded, then began to laugh myself. “I never thought of it, and now, I’ll never _stop_ thinking of it until I’ve come up with an answer.”

“Well, while you’re thinking,” he said, “ pick up a spade, and start digging out those purple iris – they’re overcrowded, and I promised some to the gardener at the Houses of Healing.” 

 

**Many Hands Make Light Work**

I had not thought to spend my day so. I had just left a rather difficult interview with my Lord Steward concerning increased funds for my rangers; and so the temptation of a few hours spent in a quiet garden with my brother was more than I could withstand. Digging and hacking provided an excellent outlet for my frustration. After a while, Boromir threw himself onto the ground, wiping his brow as he surveyed the garden with satisfaction. I stretched out beside him. 

“We’ve accomplished quite a bit here, and I thank you for your help! Mag will be by around mid-day, I think; when I told her my plans for the day she got that thoughtful look in her eye, though she didn’t say anything.”

“I’ll stay then, by all means; I’ve not had the pleasure of one of Mag’s picnics in years. A disadvantage of being posted away from the City.” So I said, but I sometimes felt it an acceptable trade-off for the freedom of Ithilien. 

“Picnic! Ha! It’s a workman’s lunch. Picnics, though… Do you remember those picnics we used to have at Dol Amroth? And the spiced crabs, the way uncle used to fix them? 

 

**Master Chef**

Had I not been born, by the grace of the Valar, Prince of Dol Amroth, I would have like to have been a cook. Or a fisherman.

As a boy, I’d cast my line at the edge of the surf, on the beach below the garden. I’d proudly bring my catch up to the kitchen, where our cook would nod approvingly, then serve it to me, crisply fried and perfectly seasoned, for my breakfast. As I became older, I’d go back and watch her, and thus learned many secrets. It’s always a good thing to be friends with the cook.

During my seafaring days, I’d learned many ways to prepare fish, lobster, squid. I didn’t have much opportunity to use those skills until later, first with my nephews, and then my own children as well. We would have what we called “Corsair parties”, down on the beach. We’d steam lobsters and crabs in a pit full of seaweed, or grill a sea-bass, and eat it all with our fingers; washing it down with well-watered ale. With all due respect to my own cook, those were some of the best meals I can remember, not just because of the food.

**Comfort Food**

My darling boy came by early, slyly mentioning that he planned to spend the morning working in his mother’s garden. I could read his mind well enough, I always could; so I merely nodded. He headed off, whistling, for all the world like any gardener’s helper, happy to be at work on such a lovely day.

As I set about my tasks that morning I packed his basket, bit by bit: crusty bread, soft cheese, hard sausage. Apricots. Cherries. Raspberry tarts, apple turnovers. Another flask of ale, a bottle of cold tea. Spiced almonds.

I was just about to call the baking boy to help carry it when one of the cook’s helpers led in a sturdy young girl, carrying a seagrass hamper on her back. She slid it off easily and set it on the flagstone floor. 

“Crabs, mum,” the girl said. “We caught them just t’other day, and wrapped them up in seaweed. Poured salt water on ‘em every day to keep them alive’. Lookat ‘em wriggle! My mother said you should have first pick, and if you don’t want ‘em I’m to take ‘em down to the fourth circle fishmarket.”

Crabs, eh? I remember Boromir talking excitedly about eating crabs when he visited Dol Amroth, cracking the claws and picking out the tasty meat inside. “I’ll take them, and thank your mother for thinking of me,” I said, reaching into my pocket for a handful of coin. 

There was some confusion, and fear, as I set the kitchen maids to digging the crabs out of the basket; finally, the baking boy laughingly took over the job. The seaweed would be put to good use dug into a garden. I steamed them up quickly, adding a few spices Prince Imrahil had suggested as being particularly toothsome for crab. Setting them carefully in a crock, we set out to bring the garden help his lunch, the spicy scent of steamed crab preceding us all the way.

I should not have been surprised to find Faramir there as well; both of them eagerly reaching for the basket. “There’s bread and cheese,” I said, “and sausage, and fruit, and a surprise –”

“Steamed crabs!” Boromir whooped. “Faramir, what did I tell you? The woman’s a mind reader!” He grabbed me by the waist and whirled me around, until we were both giddy with laughter. It always did my heart good to make my boy happy.


	28. Tales of the Longest Night: The First Gift

_Mettarë, 2997 TA_

The kitchen was finally quiet after the hubbub of the Mettarë feast. Mag loved this time, the quiet hour each year when she could relax with tea or a nip of brandy and think on the past, the future, love and loss and enduring friendship.   
   
The soft creak of the door roused her from her thoughts. She looked up in surprise to see Boromir, of all people, uncharacteristically hesitant in the open doorway. "My lord!" she called out, effortlessly turning on the expected cheer."'Tis early for you to be home from your festivities. Would you like some tea? Ginger, for an aching head, or anise, to soothe the stomach?" 

"No, Mag, nothing, thank you," he murmured. "I came because I, I found something in the market, and I thought, well, it was very pretty, and I..." Shyly he held out a small brocaded bag, of the type customary for Mettarë gifts. 

Mag was speechless for a moment. Lady Finduilas, of blessed memory, had given her gifts, lovely things, and even Lord Denethor had remembered her on several occasions, though she was sure she sensed Mormegil's deft hand in that. But this was the first time Boromir had ever given her anything. Carefully unfastening the lacing, she poured the contents gently out onto the table: a necklace of freshwater pearls, interspersed with vivid green stones. 

_Rohan green,_ Mag thought. _The poor dear._

Of course he was lonely, and thinking of his faraway love this night. As she was, too, much as she tried to push the thoughts away; Niallis was nearly two years gone. How Nall had loved jewelry, bright beads and jingling bracelets! Mag had not kept a one of them, not even any she had given Nall herself, had passed them all on to their friends as keepsakes. But this necklace could serve as a talisman for both Boromir and herself, a reminder that those far away were not absent from their hearts. 

"My lord, 'tis lovely, finer than any gift I've received in years." She smiled up at him, hoping that the sheen of tears in her eyes would not fluster him further. 

She need not have worried. He smiled like the sun, bent his head to give her a swift kiss on the cheek, and was gone. 

_Bless his heart,_ Mag thought. _Love and loss and friendship, if it comes to only that. He's man enough already to bear it all, the long years ahead, full of sweetness and sorrow, whoever the love of his life may turn out to be._


	29. Holiday Treats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt _Mag and Finduilas are cooking for the holidays, but the boys keep trying to steal cookie dough, spiced nuts, etc--how will they both deal with it?_ \- though that's not _exactly_ how the story turned out.

Though Mag was not, strictly speaking, employed in the Steward’s House any longer, it was just easier for all concerned to let her manage the cooking for the Mettarë ball. 

Her own preparations for the feast at the Citadel kitchen, of course, would have been underway weeks before: she would have already ordered casks of red wine, cinnamon bark and lemon and cloves, bottles of brandy (good quality, but not the _best_ quality, that would have been a waste) for the steaming kettles of hot toddy. Vast trays of honey-soaked pastries, seedcakes, and gingersnaps would have been swathed in cheesecloth and set high on a scullery shelf. Thinly sliced ham and good aged cheese was ready to be stuffed into biscuits. Two hundred soldiers, from the youngest cadets to oldest, the most decorated soldiers of the city, and their families, would celebrate Mettarë in the Citadel dining hall. There would be the traditional visit and greeting by the Lord Steward early on, then feasting, drinking, and dancing after. Mag could leave it all to her two Assistant Cooks, three kitchen maids, and the two boys who turned the roasting geese on the spits. Well ordered was her kitchen, and well trained her staff; despite the unceasing labor and demanding mistress they worked happily, proud of their craft and their art.

At the Steward’s House, though, the Chamberlain would be wishing, once again, that Mag had never left. That fluttering ninny of a Head Cook would be whining to retire to her bed with a migraine at any moment. The Assistant Cook would need to have everything repeated to her three times, each repetition louder, but spoken more slowly, than the last. The kitchen maids and scullery wenches would be complaining of head colds or sore throats or the cramp; all seeking to be sent home, from where, they imagined, it would be easier to slip down to the lower circle celebrations. Being young and silly it did not occur to them that Mag, too, had risen from scullery wench, and knew everything there was to be known about evading work. Yet Mag quickly set all these matters to rights with a sure, steady hand, as skilled a commander of troops as any captain-general in the field. 

Even amidst all this frenzy, how could the Steward’s sons have imagined that she would _not_ have seen them, fingers up to the knucklebones in the now-empty bowls, licking up the last bits before the dirty dishes were hauled off to the scullery? She charged across the kitchen like swooping eagle, making them both start guiltily. It mattered not one bit that they were both well past thirty years old, and feared neither man nor beast; they were not quite ready to do battle with Mag in the kitchen. Yet they would risk it all, as they had since they were children, for an early taste of her holiday cooking.

Boromir, as always, made the preemptive strike: “Smaug’s tooth, Mag, that is too _sour_!” he roared. His sweet tooth was legendary: it was no wonder that he found this concoction lacking. The honey pastries would not have stood a chance around him, which was why Mag had sent a tray of them to his room. He would find them at dawn, when he finally headed to bed; would eat them all before retiring and call it breakfast.

Faramir, having had many years opportunity to watch Mag and Boromir, merely smiled at their affectionate bickering, licking the last bits of whipped cream from his fingers. Lemon had always been his favorite flavor, sunny and sharp, reminding him of summertime in the gardens at Dol Amroth. He knew that Mag had prepared it just for him, as she always did, for no one in the Steward’s kitchen knew how to prepare birthday treats like her. Let the other guests stuff themselves with mincemeat and sweetmeats and roast suckling pig! Faramir would dine on smooth lemon syllabub and cool white wine, raising his glass to Mag when he caught a glimpse of her peeking from the kitchen; she would smile and blow him a birthday kiss.


	30. Constant

Mag heard the quiet pad of bare feet on flagstones just as she was preparing to leave the Citadel kitchen for the night. 

She knew that the young Captain-General spent long hours in his office upstairs; knew, as few did, that sometimes he sought the comfort of the quiet kitchen, tea and biscuits for a late-night snack. She had just risen to get it ready when a strong, sunburned hand on her shoulder stopped her.

“Let me do that, Mag. I know my way around your kitchen well enough.” Confidently he spooned the tea leaves into the teapot, added water from the kettle, set out the jar of honey and two mugs. Knew exactly which crock held the ginger biscuits, but stopped, hesitated, and set out the lemon ones instead. Mag smiled.

“Missing your little brother, are you?” she asked.

Boromir grinned ruefully.“I can not help but worry, proud as I am. I would have been happy to have him here in the Citadel guard, but he always did love the woods, you know that.”

“Aye, he'd had his heart set on Ithilien from the time he saw his first wild rabbit. It bounded off into the woods, and 'All wild rabbits live in Ithilien', you said. 'So I will live there too,' he said, and that was that.”

Boromir laughed. “How do you know that story, Mag? You were not anywhere near.”

I smiled. “But your Nanny was, and she told me, and about how after that your little brother read everything he could about the wild rabbits. About how they were courageous, and loyal to their warren, swift and sly and able to appear and disappear at will. And from there he studied every creature that lived in the woods, and then the woods themselves, and the long history of fair Ithilien, and his fate was sealed.”

His voice suddenly thickened. “I shall miss him so, Mag, every moment, and part of me will be forever wondering and worrying. Is that what love is? Constant fear?”

“Not constant fear, no; but constant care and thought, with him every moment, uplifting him through doubt and dark, sharing in his moments of joy.”

“How will he know, Mag? I embraced him, teasing him that his bow was longer than he was tall, but he blushed and turned away, marching off with his troop. How will he know how proud I am, and how much I love him?”

“Don't worry so,” I smiled. “He'll know.”


	31. Care Package

The Captain of the White Tower would always be in the City for Mettarë, but this year, for the first time, Faramir would be on patrol in Ithilien, away from the festivities with family and friends.

So Mag asked whatever Rangers she could find: _What would make Mettarë special for you?_ With their guidance she set to her task, and when the last courier headed back into the wild just before the year’s turning, he did not begrudge the extra packs, delivered straight into the Commander’s hand. 

Faramir, feeling a bit sorry for himself, cold and exhausted after long afternoon’s watch, could not quite believe his eyes: bowls of salted roast nuts mixed with dried fruit; spicy mulled wine; peppery ham and sharp yellow cheese rather than the usual fare of dried meat and hard biscuits. At sunset, the Commander murmured the words of the Mettarë blessing over his company’s bowed heads; then they set to their feast.

No syllabub or roast goose; no music or dancing; but Faramir felt Mag’s loving hand as clearly as if she were standing in the corner, smiling at him.


	32. Nothing Has Changed

_T.A. 3014_

The letter sat on Mag’s desk for weeks, carefully hidden among a jumble of old packing lists and grocer’s bills.

After the Captain of the White Tower had seen his men settled, equipment cleaned and stored away, horses tended, he came at last to the kitchen. He knew she would be waiting, sweet tea and hot meat pasties at the ready, just as she had for years. _She is even better than a wife,_ he thought, grinning. _No whining or nagging or arguments._

She returned his grin, thinking he looked handsomer than ever with the incipient silvering of his dark hair, the sharp boyishness of his features softened a bit by maturity and pain. Thirty six years old he was, unmarried, unfettered, unconcerned. She handed him the letter as he was finishing his meal.

He set it by the side of his trencher, unopened, yet he continued to steal sidelong glances at it as he wiped his mouth, belched softly and sheepishly, stretched out his long, leather-clad legs. He looked at it as if it was a gift he was afraid to open, for fear of disappointment; as if he were certain that it contained only dire news. Suddenly he glanced at Mag, as if seeing her for the first time in twenty years. 

“How do you bear it, Mag?” he asked softly.

“Bear what, dear heart?” she replied, though she knew full well what he meant. 

“The loneliness. To be parted from the one you love; by death, or by duty, or by the way of the world.” 

She did not know how to answer him. There had been no eyebrows raised when she and Nall lived comfortably, companionably, in their little house in the Third Circle. Who cared what women did in the privacy of their bower? But for men, things were always more complicated; for prince and steward’s heir, unthinkable. 

“I once had a dream,” he murmured. “I dreamed that he and I were old men, sitting together in a garden with a low, stone wall. The air was warm, and the sky was blue – I could hear birds singing in the apple tree behind us. Our hands were clasped together, and people walking by were smiling, and bidding us good day.”

Mag said nothing; she and Nall had sat in their garden, just so, countless times. Why had she not stopped to treasure each moment for the gift it was? 

Boromir’s voice was barely above a whisper now, ragged and hoarse. “Then he turned to me, and kissed me, right there in our garden, and the people just kept on smiling at us, as though our kiss was the most natural thing in the world. We were neither steward nor king, just two men who had lived long years together in peace and happiness.”

She had no words for him; but she reached out for his hand. He gripped hers; that handclasp bearing the weight of all the words they did not say. Smiling sadly, he lifted her hand to his lips; then reached for the letter.

To give him privacy she cleared away the remnants of the meal while he read; every now and again she heard him chuckle. When she returned to the table, he was tucking the letter away in his pouch. He smiled at her, eyes bright again with laughter; he looked as young and joyful as he had been so long ago, when he and his prince first met.


	33. Frugality

The Chancellor of the Exchequer was, as the expression went, between a rock and a hard place. 

On one side, his master, the Steward of Gondor, who upon close examination of the food budget for both the Citadel and his own household had decreed that these budgets could be more frugal. He had cut them each by twenty per cent, with the savings designated for the purchase of additional foodstuffs for the emergency granaries. Certainly a laudable decision (not that the Chancellor would venture to debate overmuch with his lord, grim and haggard as he had appeared of late); but it also fell to him to inform Mag, the inestimable Cook of the Citadel, that the legendary delicacies of the Citadel mess, delighting men, boys, and fortunate guests for many years, were about to be sharply curtailed.

“Twenty per cent! Am I to grow soldiers with magical potions, barley water and porridge? Everyone knows lads need red meat and ale,eggs and honey bread, to grow strong, . Am I to pull a bullock from either end like a snake, stretching out its meat to feed twenty more? And has that ninnyhammer of a cook in the Steward's kitchen the wit to delight his lord's table with twenty per cent less? Twenty per cent! Mark my words, the Citadel guard will be dropping like flies from the weakness, poor lambs. Twenty per cent less! Ridiculous!”

Yet as Mag rattled on and on, waving her rolling pin for emphasis, the Chancellor could already see the thoughtful gleam in her eyes. If anyone could stretch a bullock from either end like a snake, it would be Mag, and he knew the day was not far off when the Steward himself would look forward to an invitation to dine at the Citadel's “frugal” table.


	34. Panic Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Tolkien_weekly prompt "Preparations"

Four coming back, of how many? I’ll not dwell on that; Boromir and Faramir are among them, that is what matters to me.

Hot sweet tea, for shock. Faramir doesn’t like his sweet, but he’ll drink this – Boromir will see to it. Comfort food – what can I fix that’s quick? Bread pudding: one of these wenches can tear the bread while another beats the eggs and milk; work will cut down the chatter. Dried currants, raisins, peaches: is it nutmeg that Faramir dislikes?

Those worthless girls! Best I tend to it myself. Oh, my poor dears, my poor dear boys.


	35. Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valacar and The Healer are creations of Aliana, from her novel, [”Fallen”](http://www.henneth-annun.net/stories/chapter.cfm?stid=3888), and are used with her permission.

**Comfort**

 

I should have known by the quiet. That hour of the day, there should have been high spirits, chattering laughter: tea, for those awakening; ale, for others whose labors were done. That day, voices were subdued; faces turned toward me hesitantly, then glanced quickly away. They all knew how I adored their captain, my darling boy.

_No._

When Faramir came, face grey with sorrow, he did not have to say one more word than, _Mag_. I turned away; but then everything went dark.

The next thing I remember was the stench of burnt herbs, and that young healer, the sad-eyed girl, wafting the smoke under my nose. I coughed and choked, eyes watering, finally batting the bowl from her hand. “Get that stink out of here! How will anyone be able to eat?” Valacar, the surgeon, was holding my other hand, his fingers on my wrist, as if to measure the pounding of my heart. But there was no pounding; the world had gone still. Faramir hovered nearby, fretting, anxious as he always was as a child. You’d think he’d have outgrown it by now.

“Why is everyone hanging about? Isn’t there work to be done by anyone except the kitchen staff?” I hustled them all away, needing, not quiet, but the familiar sounds of my kitchen to drown the ancient keening sound that was already beginning to ring in my own head. 

_Hard work is the best cure for grief_ , so they say. Pies, cakes, hearty stews, tender roasts: the Guard spoke of it long afterward, wonderingly.


	36. Siege Cookery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For probably the most unusual challenge I've ever received: _a drabble incorporating the word "rutabaga" and without using the word "the"._

Hands on hips, Mag surveyed her pantry. 

Rutabagas, parsnips, potatoes, and carrots filled loosely woven baskets while strings of onion, peppers, and garlic hung from dusty rafters. Sacks of dried peas, lentils, and barley were stacked neatly, interspersed with bundles of dried santolina, its sharp scent reputed to repel mice and bugs. An array of crockery held preserved meats; Mag’s precious hoard of spices was still kept under her watchful eye. 

Nothing fancy, not even a chicken; but Mag knew she could produce enough porridge and pottage to keep them all going until ‘twere all over, one way or another.


	37. In the Kitchens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Ring-War drabble for the "Preparations" challenge.

_You should go to your sister’s, Mag, where you’ll be safe._

“Why? I’ve not had a civil word from her in forty years. I’d as soon go quickly, here in my kitchen, as have my last days full of her clacketing.”

_You don’t know as it would be quick._

“It would be quick. I’ve a few knives I’ve kept extra-sharp. Small ones, but they’ll do the job. I’ll be ready when the time comes, and take some with me. We may be down to pease porridge at the end, but cooking is _my_ duty here, and I'll not shirk it."


	38. End Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Ring War drabble, written for the "Hearing" prompt.

_Where are they taking Faramir?_ I wondered, but did not have time to think. We were about to barricade the doors when we heard an unearthly crack; the ground trembled beneath us. We rushed outside to see the flames rising from the Rath Dínen. 

“They are here!” a wench screamed; I slapped her and she ran away sobbing. _This cannot be happening,_ I thought, then I saw our Beregond and Mithrandir carrying Faramir between them, the Halfing Prince stumbling behind. What did it all mean? But suddenly I heard a sound like rolling thunder, and then singing, fair and terrible.


	39. Where There's Life, There's Hope (and in need of vittles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Ring War drabble, written for the "Sense of Smell" challenge.

**Where There's Life, There's Hope (and in need of vittles)**

All through the night Aragorn labored, healing the sick or hurt of body or heart, until he thought his own heart should break of it. 

And when he could bear no more, he cast his cloak about him, and was about to slip out of the city when the first whisper of the morning breeze lifted his hair. And out of that breeze came a fragrance so unexpected, so brimming with life and hope, that he laughed aloud for joy at the courage and resilience of the people of his city.

Up in the Citadel kitchen, Mag was baking bread.


	40. Five-Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "Elevensies" challenge at Tolkien_weekly. This is the "Director's Cut" and so slightly longer than drabble length.

Five Star

“They asked for _what?_ ” Mag was dumbfounded. 

How odd, Mag thought. She always left bread and cheese on the sideboard, fruit, hot tea, cold ale, for soldiers just coming off their watch, but she’d never had a request for scrambled eggs, bacon and tomatoes, blueberry flummery, cold chicken, and sausage pie all at once. And at this hour of the day! Why, nuncheon was only – 

“Were they soldiers?” she asked the flummoxed kitchen wench. Perhaps some visitors who didn’t know the customs of her kitchen? Well, she’d fix that! She certainly didn’t mind setting out good food, and lots of it, but folks just couldn’t come in any old time demanding – that would be anarchy. She wiped her hands on her apron and sallied forth to set things straight. 

“Listen, now-“ 

Four bright faces turned toward her expectantly. 

“Oh, my stars! The Periannath! In my kitchen! Welcome!”


	41. Final Office

**Final Office**

The Chamberlain found Mormegil shaking and weeping in the hall outside Lord Denethor’s chamber. He had the good sense to bring the poor man to me; I sent one of the messenger boys running to my chamber to pull the quilt from my bed. We wrapped Mormegil in it and set him by the fire, drinking hot sweet tea laced with brandy. Every now and then he shook his head, as if trying to clear away the buzzing; finally he rested his head against the back of the settle, breathing sonorously. The Chamberlain and I sat nearby, close enough to keep one eye on him. We had much to discuss.

“We shall have to do something about - " the Chamberlain glanced at Mormegil, “Lord Denethor’s remains. With Faramir ill, Prince Imrahil is the next of kin. We shall need to know his plans; we would in any case, since he by all reports has taken over governance of the city for the time being. “

“What is there left?” I asked. “I understood that the dome-"

"There will be ashes, and possibly even bones, under the ruins. We’ll need some sort of urn. The chamber itself is ruined, and very probably unstable; we'll have to be very careful inside. ‘Tis a pity we sent so many of the staff away; we could use some extra hands.”

“Let me.” Mormegil’s words startled me; I had imagined that he had finally fallen asleep, but when he met my glance, his eyes were clear. “I can mop and scrub; and I can gather – it is my duty, I who have always tended to him, to do this final office. Let me.”

The Chamberlain and I looked at each other; there was no denying the justice of Mormegil’s request, just as there was no denying that no one else would have wished to perform it. “Come, Mag,” the Chamberlain said. “We’d best go speak with the Prince at once. Not you. ” Mormegil had half risen. “Not you, Mormegil,” he continued kindly. "Rest here, and recover your strength, for long and wearying days are ahead of us, one way or the other.”

~*~

Prince Imrahil had commandeered the Steward’s office. His guardsmen barred our way until the adjutant recognized me from his late-night visits to the kitchen. After I drew him aside and explained our intentions, he nodded, leading us to the door himself.

“Dervorin, Chamberlain of the late Steward, and Mag, Cook of the Citadel,” he announced. The Prince glanced up as we approached, running his hand through his thinning hair. He looked, as we all did, filthy and bone-weary; but worse, he looked heart-sick, as if he had aged twenty years in the past two days. “Yes, what is it?”

I had a bit of a speech prepared in my head, but the Chamberlain, as was his nature and office, took the lead. 

“It is about my lord Denethor’s remains. We beg your leave to gather them up, and keep them, with all due reverence, until such a time as a proper memorial may be held.”

For just a fraction of an instant Prince Imrahil looked stricken. “A proper memorial…” he murmured, almost to himself. “…as is befitting. His service was without blemish for many years, he should not be judged by…but what of Faramir? How would he….?” 

He nodded briskly, turning toward the adjutant. “Have a detail from the Quartermaster’s company survey the ruins and, only if it is safe to do so, identify and gather the remains. The Chamberlain," he nodded in our direction, “will provide a suitable urn or casque. Have it brought to me when the task is finished, and I will guard it until the proper time.” The adjutant was still scribbling notes as I spoke up.

“If it please Your Grace –" Imrahil looked up sharply; never had he required that I address him so formally. “If it please Your Grace, Lord Denethor’s manservant, Mormegil, has begged leave to perform this task. Nearly sixty years has he served the Steward and the City.”

“Sixty years by Denethor’s side…the man is steadfast, without doubt." He thought a moment. "Very well: the work detail will locate the remains, but Mormegil alone will gather them and place them in the casque. They will give him privacy for his task, but will stand by outside to assist him if necessary.” He nodded to the adjutant, who began to escort us from the chamber.

“Mag…” Quickly I turned back toward him, struck by the bleakness of his voice. “If he has served Denethor for sixty years, what is to become of him? Is there some place for him in the Citadel, or the Steward’s House?”

Dear Prince Imrahil. Amid all the grief and anguish of the day, he still spared a moment of concern for an old man he hardly knew. “We will find him a place, my Lord. I promise.”


	42. Yule-in-Summer

**Yule-in-Summer**

The halfling’s voice was wistful as he sat, swinging his legs back and forth like a child. It took an effort to remember that it was he who had pulled dear Faramir from the pyre, beating out the flames with his small hands. “It’s usually snowy at Yule, so in the afternoon we go sledding, and then come in and have hot cider, and baked apples. Or nut bread with apple butter. And then for dinner, roast pork with sage dressing and applesauce. And apple pie, of course, for dessert.”

His friend, still wan from his injuries, murmured that no one would want to eat that many apples all in one day. What about the roasted sweet potatoes, the curly kale, the cherry-studded bread pudding? 

“That’s Brandybuck food. We eat apples at all six meals on Yule, to make us healthy and wealthy and wise. It’s a Took family tradition.” His friend snorted, muttering something like, _healthy and wealthy, yes, but the wisdom seems lacking…._

Dried apples, and sage, and bread for dressing, thought Mag; and if there’s a suckling pig to be found, I’ll have it for them; sweet potatoes and curly kale besides. No snow; just perfectly blue skies from east to west, thank the Valar. I’ll give these heroes a Yule-in-summer feast to make up for what they’ve missed, to hold them until next Yule when they’re home with their loved ones again.


	43. Unmasked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Immediately post- Ring War. For the prompt, _I'd like to see what happens when she realizes the new King is Thorongil…_

**Unmasked**

The more I saw of the King, the more I was reminded of another man, from long ago.

I couldn’t quite put my finger on what stirred the memories. Was it the way he walked, that catlike glide I glimpsed when he was strolling alone across the courtyard? Was it the way he bent his head to listen to the shy, hesitant soldiers or townsmen, unsure how to approach this creature of legend, the king? Or was it the way he rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly when he thought no one was watching? 

I was sure I had seen all those gestures before. The memory seemed so close, as if I could just reach out and catch it. Like a firefly, like the dandelion fluff I remembered dancing on the breeze, when I was a girl in Lebennin. We had met before - I was certain of it. 

But the king never said a word about his past; all that was known of him was that he was of the Dunedáin of the North, had traveled throughout the world, was friend to elves, wizards, periannath., all manner of odd creatures. Visitors to the White City, well-wishers, his own companions and kinsmen referred to him by many names: Strider, Aragorn, Estel, Elfstone. Never a name I recognized.

Then, one day, I remembered, and it all made such perfect sense. 

Odd that it would be one small detail: the sharp Maguey spirits favored by Prince Imrahil and Captain Thorongil when a particular mood was upon them. There were certain rituals involved in its drinking, these rituals being a source of great debate between the two, when they were at their leisure (and slightly in their cups, if truth be known) – the relaxed quibbling between two good friends. 

Lord Denethor liked it not, had choked and spat it out (so the story went) when first he tasted it. In revenge of this humiliation (so the story also went) Imrahil had introduced both Boromir and Faramir to the drink, sworn them to secrecy, and taught them the rituals. I had long had a bottle in my keeping; remembering this, I set – not a trap, exactly, but a test, yes, a test of my own memory, to determine if I was correct in what I thought I saw.

So one evening, late in the spring, when the evening air was warm enough for the fireflies to dance, I called across the twilit courtyard to the Steward and the King. 

“My Lord Faramir – come see what I’ve found in my cupboard! It was your uncle Imrahil’s. Pity he’s not here to share it, though I suppose we could send word down to him. Look, I’ve set it as you and he and Boromir used to drink it.”

“Ohho,” Faramir said, whistling softly. “Oh yes, I remember this drink _very_ well, and what it used to do to us. I’ve not tasted it in years – Uncle Imrahil was the only one who ever liked it. We drank it to please him, trying to appear as sophisticated and worldly as he was. We failed miserably, I think. Have you ever sampled it, my lord? _Maguey,_ it’s called, made from a plant which grows far to the south. Traders brought it…”

The king smiled. “I have tasted it before, yes, indeed. A fiery drink, not soon forgotten.”

“Perhaps we should toast your kingship with it, since Mag has gone to all the trouble to set it out for us. Do you remember how we used to do it, Mag? First we’d rub the rim of the goblet with the lime, then dip the rim in salt. Then, we’d drink -”

The king startled Faramir with a more direct method. Not bothering with the salt, he took the goblet and tossed back the contents with one gulp. Then he took the lime and bit into it. As he bit, his eyes met mine. I was nearly quivering with glee: not to reveal his secret, but in my own delight in being correct. 

_Thorongil_. Silently I mouthed the name; his eyes grew wide. Then, surprisingly, he grinned. 

“The hands of the king…” I murmured; Thorongil–that-was, my king Elessar, burst out laughing.

“Where are my manners!” Faramir exclaimed. “Mag, you’ve gone through such trouble for us! You must join us in a toast. Let me go get you a goblet…” Happy to be the host, he headed off for the kitchen.

I felt suddenly shy in the presence of my king. “I did not mean, my lord, I mean, I would never…”

He smiled, the boyish, dimpled smile I remembered from so long ago. “You were always kind to me, Mag. It was ever a comfort to sit in your kitchen.”

I blushed, something I had not done in many years. Fortunately Faramir returned at that very moment. Carefully he prepared goblets for both of us, lime and salt. “To the King!”

“To the King!” I murmured. Aragorn laughed, nodding his head in acknowledgement of the toast, as I took my first taste in forty years of sharp Maguey.


	44. The Wedding Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, _What non-food occasion in Minas Tirith sticks out in her memory, and who was there?_ I’ve turned the question around to tell a tale of a meal Mag did **not** cook.

**The Wedding Guest**

It had been difficult enough, after the siege, to cobble together enough food for the Coronation feast. When I began to hear whispered rumors of a wedding at Midsummer, with Elvish royalty to be among the guests, it was the closest I had ever come to just sitting down and crying. 

I was at my desk, trying to come up with some kind of plan that did not involve sending the children of the city out scouring the hedgerows for blackberries, when Faramir came in, looking uncharacteristically frazzled. 

“Mag,” he began, taking my hands, after brushing aside my offer of tea and the plain rye biscuits which were all I had on hand at the moment. “It’s about the wedding feast. The elves…” He took a deep breath, looking very much as he had when he was six years old and bearing bad news, usually about Boromir and the honey jar.

“Theelveshaveofferedtoprepareandservetheentireweddingfeast,andtheKinghasagreed,andasksifyouwouldbehisguestonthatday,inrecognitionofyourlongservicetothecity.”

Say that again? So he did, slowly. 

What? I am not to cook my King’s wedding feast? I am to sit idly by while others scurry to plan and cook and serve and clean?

I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it, quickly. What delicacies, I wondered, would be served at an Elvish wedding? And how could I duplicate them later? Did the elves share recipes?

“Please to tell my lord, the King Elessar, that I accept his thoughtful offer, and will be quite happy to attend the wedding feast as his guest.”

Faramir let out a sigh of relief. The dear boy, he never did enjoy being caught in the middle of an argument.


	45. Mousery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the request _Having been subject to both mice and cockroaches this year thanks to the filthy people in the flat downstairs (since moved out, as thankfully have the vermin) I'd love to hear how Mag coped with a similar situation in the kitchens!  
> _

**Mousery**

Back in the White City, Mag’s pantries had seldom been troubled by mice. 

There were some, of course – where there is food, there will be mice – but the ancient stone walls did not provide quite as many cozy hiding places as the thatched roofs and woodpiles and hedgerows of Emyn Arnen. Work had begun on cutting shale for roof tiles, to replace the thatch, but that would be a long process, and of course the main parts of the house would have priority. So Mag was looking forward, with some dismay, to sharing the kitchen and pantry with any number of creatures for some time yet.

And good mousers, it seemed, were trained, not born: learning these skills at their mother’s side. Few of the new crop of stable and barn cats were ready yet. Some of them showed promise, according to the stable boys, proud of the trainees’ achievements, but it would still be some time before they could be expected to take up their duties. If the stableboys could even bear to part with their favorites. 

“How about a good black snake?” Cempa, one of Lady Éowyn’s grooms, suggested. “They mouse just as well as cats, and are less troublesome. And you won’t have to worry about waking up in the night with it sitting on your chest, staring at you. Well, not unless it really likes you…” 

The horrified expression on Mag’s face was quite enough to silence him, while Éowyn tried in vain to stifle her smile. It would not do to offend Mag, normally quite good-natured and level-headed, but absolutely unreasonable in her aversion to snakes. 

“Surely we have a mouser or two to lend Mag, don’t we?” Éowyn asked. “She’ll be grateful to have the help as soon as possible. Perhaps she could…” The stable boys looked crestfallen, sorry to give up their favorites, but Mag nodded sagely. She knew just what was needed to seal the deal. 

The next morning a dainty calico and her gingery-striped son reported to Mag’s kitchen. They carefully inspected all areas: pantry, buttery, woodpile, and promptly presented their new mistress with four proofs of their prowess (“Tokens of their esteem,” as Faramir put it, causing Éowyn to choke over her tea.). Mag quickly set out a wide bowl of cream, in payment of her end of the bargain. Shortly afterward, spice cakes, warm from the oven, were delivered to the stable boys, a salute to their expertise as judges of Mousery.


	46. Girl Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, "Five Men Mag Might Have Considered Sleeping With (if she didn't prefer women)". A request from [Edoraslass](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoraslass/pseuds/Edoraslass), whose OC, Nanny, appears with her permission. Check out the Nanny stories (some of which also feature Mag) right here: ["Under My Wing"](http://archiveofourown.org/series/40064)

**Girl Talk**

“Seriously, now Mag...” Nanny's cheeks were glowing, and her eyes were sparkling. “Of all the men you have known in the City, if you _were_ to have taken one of them for a lover, which would it have been?”

It was midsummer in Emyn Arnen. The ladies had retired to Éowyn 's shaded garden to test out the plum wine so enthusiastically bottled by Faramir the summer before. Éowyn was proud that Nanny had finally come, combining her stay in Ithilien with a visit to her new grandchild in Minas Tirith. Between them, Nanny and Mag were the closest Éowyn had to a mother-in-law, and she thanked the Powers that she got on so well with them both. It was hugely entertaining to listen to their teasing laughter and fond reminiscence of the years that had spent together in the White City. The plum wine was helping things along quite a bit, too. 

“Pah! Men!” Mag chortled. “What use would I have had for them? Loud, sweaty, smelly, selfish louts, most of them; I'd have been better off with a dog.” Éowyn nearly choked with laughter. “Though,” Mag added, winking at Éowyn, “ I was pretty enough in my youth; I daresay if I _had_ wanted any of them, I could have, with little enough effort...”

“Who, Mag, who?” Éowyn asked, feeling both delighted and shocked at this turn of the conversation. 

“Well, most any of your Rohirrim, visiting the city. Your cousin Théodred was a fine figure of a man,” Mag continued, almost dreamily. “I met him when he was eighteen, and visiting Minas Tirith for the first time. Those golden curls! That smile! Oh yes, he could have charmed the birds out of the trees...” She paused, lost in happy memories, while Éowyn tried not to dwell on the fact that Mag would have been over 30 years older than Théodred. Clearly, women kept their fires burning much longer that she had ever imagined. 

“I don't think I remember Théodred,” Nanny said, yawning just the tiniest bit. “But I do remember, what was his name, that ranger from the north? Thorlemir or Thorgelson or whatever it was.”

“Thorongil, of course,” Mag grinned “And I remember how miffed you were at him, supposedly because he ignored Boromir, but perhaps it was because he ignored _you_?”

“What?” Nanny spluttered. “ I had no interest whatsoever in that scruffy ranger! I've always had the highest respect for good grooming in a man, something _he_ seemed to take little interest in.”

“I'm surprised you didn't take up with Mormegil, then,” Mag teased. “He had that lovely hair, like silk. He was always testing out various hair ointments for Lord Denethor, did you know? That was Denethor's great vanity, his hair, much more than his clothes. He would use some potion for a few weeks, then tire of it. Poor Mormegil was always running to one apothecary's to the next, searching out something new. Lemon, rosemary, strawberry...”

Éowyn nearly choked. Of all the stories she had heard, no one had ever mentioned Lord Denethor having strawberry-scented hair. She was not sure if she wanted to question Faramir about this, though.

“Well, Mormegil was always mooning about after you, anyway. And what about the Chamberlain?” Nanny asked. “If I had been a wagering woman, and didn't know you better, of course, I'd have been certain you'd have married _him_. He seemed interested enough.” 

“He did, didn't he? He was a pleasant man, always courtly and gracious, but not for me. When he retired, he married the mistress of the House of Silk, and helped her with the business. They bought out two other houses, made great heaps of money, and then sold the whole thing to that Inara, from Harondor, and moved to Tolfalas Isle.” 

Éowyn was stunned. Did Mag know everyone in the city? And all of their secrets?

Suddenly there was a slight rustle, followed by a gentle cooing from the basket at Éowyn's feet. Nanny and Mag both paused to watch fondly as Éowyn took up Elboron and settled him to nurse.

“Did you never want a child, really, Mag?” Nanny asked softly.

“No, I don't think so, not really, but ... there was one man – well, he was not a man, actually; if I ever _had_ wanted a child, I would have wanted it to be his.”

Éowyn and Nanny both stared at her, speechless. “Not a _man_?” Éowyn gasped. “An elf? Or --”

Mag's voice was faraway, dreamy. “No, not an elf, something far more than man or elf. There are tales, aren't there, of the Maiar, falling in love with mortals, and having children with them. Maiar have walked among us, in this world; you know this to be true, for you have seen them, just as I.”

Éowyn caught her breath as Nanny whispered. “ _Mithrandir._ You were in love with _Mithrandir_. I never, oh, Mag, I never would have guessed!”

Mag's laugh was merry, youthful. “I didn't ever say I _was_. I said, _might have been_. For it would have taken wizardry to make me change my nature, and want a man.”


	47. Foreign Ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the request _the most unusual/challenging meal that Mag ever had to cook._ Here’s the most unusual thing someone _else_ thought she wouldn’t know how to cook.

**Foreign Ways**

“We mix the mare’s milk with yeast and sugar,” Lady Éowyn said. “Then we pour it into this leather bag, and hang it in the doorway of the stable. Each time someone enters or leaves the stable, they shake the bag, and that will keep it mixed. By the time my brother and his company have arrived, the _kumiss_ will be ready, and we’ll drink a toast to his visit!”

She and her groom, Cempa, who would be milking the mares, smiled expectantly, waiting for my reaction. I almost had to bend my head to hide my grin, for I was familiar with _kumiss_ , had tasted it long before either of them was born. There was a tavern down in the second circle where the drink was served as exotic fare to the more adventurous folk of Gondor, and a welcome reminder of home to Rohirric visitors. 

One summer evening Niallis and I were headed home from the market when we realized that we were being followed. Turning quickly (for we were forthright, if not always sensible) we found two young men, tall and blond, who, without skill in our language, had been trying to get our attention. For Nall, of course, the lack of common speech was no difficulty: her smiling eyes and dimpled cheeks were easily understood. By means of gestures, we accepted their invitation to stop for a drink. 

Ale was brought for me and Nall, a fine raspberry-flavored brew, the like of which I’ve not tasted, before or since. But what caught my attention were the small cups of frothy drink downed with great delight by our companions. Noticing my interest, they ordered some for us; Nall took a single sniff and turned up her pretty nose, to their great laughter. I, as always when faced with a new food or drink, was intrigued, and happy to take a taste. Its flavor was much like buttermilk, cool and tangy, but with a sharp bite afterwards. Through a hilarious pantomime by our companions, and others in the tavern, our own guardsmen as well as merchants and tradesmen, I finally understood what the drink was, and how it was made. Evidently I was the first woman of Gondor they had met who did not turn pale after sampling it. As such, I was toasted with several rounds, the drinks served with tiny pastries that tasted like goat cheese with a hint of dill.

As evening fell, and our curfew drew nearer, I began to attempt to bid our new friends a good evening. Nall was of no use in this whatsoever: she and her companion had disappeared early on. I sighed, but there was little I could do: though she was my closest friend, she needed to learn to be responsible for herself. Some of the guardsman offered to escort me home, and so, with many thanks, I left Nall to her own devices. But I never forgot the sharp tangy drink, and the warmth and friendliness of the Rohirric tavern.

All these memories, of course, flashed through my mind in the blink of an eye, while my lady and her groom waited. I did so like Lady Éowyn; I found her pragmatism an excellent foil to my lord Faramir’s dreaminess. Mostly I loved the way they looked at each other, as if each of them had received, completely unexpectedly, the most marvelous gift. For so they had.

“What a wonderful idea!” I exclaimed. “How pleased the King will be to see that the customs of Rohan have an important place here. Will you teach me to make other delicacies as well? I have heard of a raspberry ale…and aren’t there cheese pastries, too? With dill? ”

My lady glowed with pride and delight; her groom and attendants smiled broadly. We would take a bit of Rohan, and a bit of Gondor, and blend the two to make our own happy customs, here in Ithilien.


	48. Slapstick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the request: Mag and Eowyn, using two randomly chosen words: _scrumptious_ and [ _lavilier_](http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/lavalier?r=75&src=ref&ch=dic). Absolutely unrepentant slapstick. 
> 
> Oh, and here's the lavilier that inspired the story:

**Slapstick**

Éowyn was in the kitchen with Mag, rolling out pastry, when the latest gift arrived. One of the lesser nobles of the Sirith Valley had decided that the quickest way to a preferment for his gormless son was through Éowyn's good graces, utterly disregarding her protests that she had little influence with the Prince on such matters (not true, but neither Hatholdir nor his addlepated son need know that). 

"Open it for me, Mag, would you? I've butter all over my hands," she said exasperatedly, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes. "And whatever it is, you can have it; I've enough inkpots and lace gloves and doilies to hold me for the next fifty years. I don't know who's advising him on his gift-giving, but it's obviously not anyone who's ever met me."

Mag nodded absently, trying to keep one eye on the pastry (which, if rolled too thin, would stretch and break, spilling butter and mincemeat and rum-soaked raisins all over the table) and the other on Elboron and the two youngest dogs, Ox and Ass (who were lurking under the trestle table, waiting for bits of dough and mincemeat and raisins to rain upon them, like Yavanna's blessings). 

The gift was in a small ebonywood box inside a larger soapstone box inside an even larger cedar box filled with wood shavings. The soapstone box was wrapped in poufy pink silk taffeta; Eowyn looked up at the rustling. "What on earth..."

It has hard to tell exactly what it was. A lavilier, a pendant, hanging on a heavy gold chain, definitely old, presumably valuable, but....

"My stars," Éowyn breathed. 

"It looks like..." Mag was trying hard not to laugh. "a duck, or a trout, or..."

"Or an ensorceled gangrel of them both. Why do you think it's curled around that blue egg? And are those floaty things bubbles, or flowers?" Éowyn asked, reaching for a closer look. The whatever-it-was slipped through her fingers, bounced once on the flagstone floor, and ended up under the table. 

"Shiny, pretty!" Elboron burbled, but Ox was ahead of him, quickly licking off the buttery sugary coating. "My shiny!" Elboron cried, but the dog, sensing trouble, snatched it up in his jaws and dashed out the door. Everyone in the kitchen stopped what they were doing to chase him. 

He got as far as the mudwallow by the horse's trough, where he stopped once again to savor his prize. Distracted for a moment by all the commotion of this wonderful new game, he let it drop, and that was when a magpie swooped down, seized the bauble in his beak, and flew off.

"My shiny!" cried Elboron. "Bad Ox! Bad bird!" And burst into tears. 

At that moment the Prince of Ithilien came strolling around from the front of the house, waving a parchment. "Oh, there you are, Éowyn. I have a letter from Hatholdir of the Sirith. Apparently he is sending a gift, 'a rare and precious heirloom of his house, a token of his esteem for you, dear lady, in hopes that you will do him the honor of wearing it at the king's wedding anniversary ball'. What is he talking about, do you have any idea?"

"Oh dear," said Eowyn, as Ox and Ass happily licked the scrumptious combination of tears, sugar, and butter off of Elboron's face, and the magpie cackled and cawed in triumph.


	49. The Prodigal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m very honored that fanfic author AmandaK invited me to step into her 'verse of MiraculouslyUndead! Boromir, the MEFA Award-winning [_The Long Road Home_](http://lordoftherings.scribblesinink.com/). She asked, _I would love to see the reunion between Returned!Boromir and Mag..._

**The Prodigal**

It was not an interview Boromir was looking forward to. He had always thought that seeing Aragorn again, having to explain himself to his dearest friend and companion, now his king, would have been the worst. In a sense it was, but once it was done, it was done. 

But now he suffered these constant pinpricks of guilt, when he would run into a guardsman or scribe or counselor, when they looked at him with that peculiar mixture of shock and disbelief and pity for his shame. Occasionally, there would be a flash, a glimmer of joy, on someone’s face, the quickly blurted, “Oh, I did not ever believe it for a moment, my lord! Not dead, not _you!_ ” But to his mind, those responses were few and far between. He had not yet become accustomed to walking with his face held up to the sun. 

And so he finally girded up his courage and set off to see the one woman whose affection for him had never wavered. To see if she had held true, even through this.

He chose a quiet time of the mid-morning, past the breakfast rush, but before the bustle of nuncheon preparations. Yet when he walked into the kitchen, he noticed that it had been rearranged – her great worktable, which had always stood by the window, was now in the middle of the room. The pots and serving dishes had been moved, too, as well as the stoneware crocks where tea and sweets had been stored for as long as he could remember. She was not at the worktable, nor could he hear her humming to herself in the pantry, nor was she seated at the huge desk where she managed her accounts. 

A man was sitting there, writing in one of Mag’s books. Boromir thought he remembered him, an assistant of whom she was particularly proud. The man looked up from his ledger, startled at the intrusion.

“Can I help you? Oh, my Lord Boromir-” There it was again, that look, shock and pity. 

“I’m looking for Mag. Is she not here today? She's not ill, is she, or on her half-day?”

“Mag? Oh, no, my lord, she is not here, that is, she no longer works here. She has gone to Ithilien with the Prince’s household. He thought, perhaps, after the siege and all, she might like some peace and quiet, a change of scenery. She’s been gone, oh, almost four years now. To Emyn Arnen, with Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn..”

Boromir stared at the man stupidly. The Citadel kitchen without Mag? Why had Faramir not told him? Why had he not thought to ask? But then, he said to himself, there were so many things to ask, so much to learn all over again. Mag was but one more detail, among thousands, it seemed. 

Thanking Cook, and wishing him good fortune of his new position, he stumbled into the bright sunlight of the morning. Quickly making his decision, he headed to the stables, selected the fastest mount, and set off toward Ithilien.

~*~

Late afternoon: that quiet lull between nuncheon and supper. Though it mostly seemed quiet, Mag thought to herself, since she had so many fewer mouths to feed here than at the Citadel, or even at the Steward’s kitchen. Appreciative mouths, certainly; and an interesting variety of food – more fish and wild game, venison and boar, and wonderful vegetables straight from the garden. Lately, too, she had begun experimenting with cheesemaking, adding various herbs and spices or wrapping the cheeses in infused cloths. There was always something new to learn, but still, even after four years, she was surprised by how quiet the country was. And how she often missed the bustle of the city.

It was an unseasonably mild day for late-winter, the breeze from the river carrying the warm humid tang of the sea. Many members of the household had sought excuses to work outside today: walking the fences, searching the fields for early greens, mushroom-hunting in the damp woods. When she heard the step outside the kitchen door she did not look up from rolling out the supper biscuits, merely called, “Wipe your feet, please, I’ve mopped enough mud for another whole garden today.” Something about the muffled grunt in response made her look up.

The low sun was shining behind him, leaving his face in shadow, yet his hair was limned golden. His walk, the set of his shoulders – it could not be…

_Mag -_ The word was halfway between a question and a sob. And then he was in her arms, and she was in his, embracing her and swirling her about, just as he had when he was younger, gleeful over the special treats she kept for him alone. And then she was weeping, and when she reached up to touch his beloved face, older now, careworn, she felt his warm tears as well.

She stepped away then – this was no time for such foolishness– and looked him over thoroughly. Two eyes, two arms, two legs, but –

“Oh, my darling boy! You are so _thin_! We’ll have to do something about that.” And then they both laughed and wept, again and again.


	50. Mag's Resignation

**Mag's Resignation**

It was hard to imagine that the wizened old woman, perched nervously in the wide leather chair, was the same Mag who had reigned so famously over the kitchens of the Citadel for nearly forty years. Though her eyes were just as bright, and her smile just as wide, the nervous twisting her hands betrayed her, for Eowyn herself had prepared the warming salve of beeswax and pepper to comfort those aching joints. What was distressing her so? 

“It isn’t that I’m not grateful, my lady, for being offered the position here – it’s been an honor to serve you and dear Faramir, I mean, my lord Prince.” How had her speech managed to retain a faint trill of Lebennin, when, by all reports, she’d not returned home in all that time? “The truth of the matter, lady, is that it’s, well, it’s just too quiet here. Except for the damned bullfrogs croaking all night, and those bugs – cicadas, are they? What a racket! And owls, too, hooting the night away! ‘Tis a wonder anyone can sleep. And there are snakes out there, too. I’ve not had to spare a thought for snakes in sixty years, and now I have to watch my step every time I go outside. It’s just too much for an old woman to bear.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, mam, but I want to go home. Back to Minas Tirith.”

If Eowyn felt bemused by the thought of the woman who, over seventy years old, had famously taken a whetstone and sharpened every carving knife, boning knife, meat cleaver, and icepick in the Citadel kitchen, and set them ready to hand during the Siege, being intimidated by the small harmless snakes of Ithilien, she did not betray this. “We’ll be so sorry to see you leave, Mag, especially Faramir – you’ve been a part of his life for as long as he can remember. Where will you go? You certainly deserve some rest, though I can’t see you sitting idle for any length of time.” 

“No, I’ve had offers. There are a few as still remember my cooking.” She brightened a bit, smiling at the memory of happily spoiling so many generations of citadel guards. “There’s a small tavern, you probably don’t know it, called The Rose Garden. Beregond‘s brother is a friend to the proprietress, and has put in a word for me. Actually…” Mag looked a bit embarrassed now. “Actually, I’m a part owner. I just wanted to make sure everything was set for me before I spoke to you. I wanted to make sure I had a home in Minas Tirith to go back to.”


	51. A Meal Fit For....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the request _I'd like to see Mag tackle organizing/cooking a meal for a guest list that includes someone with some sort of food allergy or dietary restriction."_

**A Meal Fit For...**

The historic first visit of a delegation from Nurn to the court of the King of Gondor and Arnor was meticulously orchestrated. The positions of the celestial bodies had been carefully examined to determine the most auspicious date; the list of dignitaries selected to meet His Excellency, Prince Chinmoy, had been exhaustively scrutinized by both sides; the only house in Minas Tirith to meet the delegation's stringent requirements had been generously offered by its residents, who had been well-recompensed for their contribution to the State. Over the course of the past fifteen months, every detail that could be considered, had been. 

Except, perhaps, for one. 

"He's bringing his _what_?" the king asked.

"His spiritual advisor, Karoli Baba. It's a very great honor, actually; I understand he has not left his monastery for eighteen years," Faramir replied, his eyes glowing with suppressed excitment.

"Eighteen years! What has he been doing?"

"Praying, and teaching, and corresponding with Prince Chinmoy, apparently. I've tried to procure some copies of Baba Karoli's writings, searched the Archives, sent students to look in all the bookshops, but we've found nothing; very little pertaining to Nurn at all."

The king motioned towards the tray of fruit and cheese on his desk; the Shire custom of Elevensies had been embraced in the Citadel with great enthusiasm. Faramir sat down, stretched out his long legs, and helped himself to an apple. 

"All right, we are duly honored, " said the king. "What effect will this have on the preparations already in place? It won't take another year to rearrange them, will it?"

Faramir rifled through his notes. "No, I don't think so. Let me see. Hmm....'south-east facing chamber'....'sleeping pallet refilled daily with beech leaves'....'does not eat the flesh of any creature, not any food that is derived from a living creature.' Oh-oh. 'Out of respect to Baba Karoli's beliefs, neither do we eat any proscribed foods while in his company, and request others also to refrain from doing so. Please plan accordingly.'"

Aragorn Elessar paused, surveying the chunk of good Ithilien cheddar in his hand. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

~*~

" 'No flesh of any creature, nor any food derived from a living creature.' That's pretty clear, I'd say; no meat, eggs, milk, cheese, honey..." Mag passed the papers back to Faramir.

"Honey? Really? Oh, of course, I should have thought of that." 

"No matter; you can always use almond milk, or rosewater, if you need to sweeten something," Mag replied absently. "Who's the cook in the Citadel now? It's not still Risthir, is it?"

"I don't _think_ so. To be honest, Mag, I have no idea, but whoever it is, we can't take a chance on anything going wrong."

"Ha! I remember now, it's Malfin. What a ninny. I met him in the market once; he didn't know a pattypan from a kabocha. He'll make a hash of things, that's for certain. Get him out of there, send him home to Lamedon for a few weeks, or have someone break his wrist; he can't cook without waving his spoon about like a battle flag. I'll be up there as soon as he's gone to take a look around."

"Then you'll take care of the banquet? The menu, the ordering, the cooking and serving...everything?"

Mag's eyes gleamed with laughter. "Of course I will, darling boy, I mean, my Lord Steward. You don't have to worry. I'll take care of it all."

  
**A Feast of Threes**

**In Honor of His Excellency,  
** Prince Chinmoy  
Ambassador of the Imperial Court of Nurn  
to the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor  
Aragorn Elessar Telcontar, High King  
1 Víressë, FA 11 

**~*~**

**Three Soups**  
 __[Creamy Carrot-Ginger Bisque](http://www.vegetariantimes.com/recipes/10669?section=)  
[Fresh Pea Soup with Tarragon ](http://www.vegetariantimes.com/recipes/10545?section=)  
[Wild Mushroom Soup](http://www.vegetariantimes.com/recipes/7532?section=)

**Three Salads**   
__[Roasted Beet and Blood Orange Salad](http://www.101cookbooks.com/archives/000135.html)   
[Spicy Fig and Artichoke Salad](http://www.vegetariantimes.com/recipes/10381?section=)   
[Chickpea Salad with Fennel](http://www.vegetariantimes.com/recipes/10703?section=)

**Three Vegetables**  
 __[Tangy Braised Red Cabbage](http://www.vegetariantimes.com/recipes/10420?section=)  
[Curly Kale with Caramelized Onions](http://www.vegetariantimes.com/recipes/9988?section=)  
[Garlic-Roasted Asparagus](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/emeril-lagasse/garlic-roasted-asparagus-recipe/index.html)

**Three Breads**  
 __[Olive-Rosemary Flatbread](http://www.vegan-food.net/recipe/935/Olive-Rosemary-Flatbread/)  
[Naan with Garlic and Coriander](http://www.vegan-food.net/recipe/933/Naan-Bread-with-Garlic-and-Coriander/)  
[Barley and Wheat Soda Bread](http://vegweb.com/index.php?topic=24143.0)

**Three Main Dishes**  
 __[Sweet Potato and Red Lentil stew](http://www.vegetariantimes.com/recipes/9919?section=)  
[Mushroom and Leek Pastries](http://www.vegetariantimes.com/recipes/10156?section=)  
[Grape Leaves Stuffed with Rice and Currants](http://www.vegetariantimes.com/recipes/10438?section=)

**Three Desserts**  
 __[Apple Tart](http://www.vegetariantimes.com/recipes/10543?section=)  
[Orange Slices with Pistachios and Cardamom](http://www.vegetariantimes.com/recipes/10213?section=)  
[Pears Poached in Red Wine](http://www.vegetariantimes.com/recipes/9970?section=)  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I set myself the challenge of planning a multi-course feast free from meat, eggs, or dairy products. It wasn't all that difficult, thank to the Intarwebz, and particularly the search feature on [Vegetarian Times ](http://www.vegetariantimes.com/recipes/) \- I just plugged in "vegan" and was all set. To be reasonably authentic, I eliminated tofu in any of its forms, pastas, and contemporary ethnic recipes. For an additional challenge, I visualized a late winter/early spring feast, relying mainly on foods that would have been staples of the late winter pantry: dried beans, squash, onions and other root vegetables, as well as those that might have been coaxed from an early garden: peas, spinach, asparagus. The oranges might be considered "luxury" items, but hey - it is the King's table, after all. And while the foods themselves might be vaguely authentic, the recipes definitely are not - though I'm sure Mag could have done marvelous things with a ready supply of frozen phyllo dough.


End file.
